Revision and Rescript
by QueenOfTheDreamers87
Summary: Embroiled in an unhappy marriage to Ron, haunted by the scars left behind by Voldemort's assault on the wizarding world, Hermione makes the bold decision to travel back in time in an attempt to change the course of history as she's known it after being given a mysterious Time-Turner. What will become of her in 1968, and what will become of the world she's left behind? Volmione.
1. OS and Friends

_29 September 2004_

Hermione used one foot to kick shut the door of the Shoreditch flat she shared with Ron Weasley, and she let out an undignified noise. She looked about the empty sitting room and called out,

"Ronald! Come and help with the shopping, will you?"

Ron came ambling out of the bedroom, and Hermione scowled to see that he was still wearing pyjama trousers and no shirt. She adjusted her hold on the canvas grocery bags from the Pepper Pot and huffed,

"It's half past ten."

"Yeah. Late night last night," Ron yawned, quite obnoxiously. Hermione set the heavy bags of food down on the ground and crossed her arms over her chest.

"I'm aware it was a late night; I was there, too," she pointed out. "I managed to be up at seven, showered and out the door by eight… I went to the bookshop and got myself a copy of Benton Carson's new book on the integration of Muggle technology in the wizarding world, and I -"

"Did you get a copy for my dad?" Ron asked, scratching at his messy red hair. Hermione tossed her hands up in frustration.

"Did I… I'm sorry; what?"

"You got a book about Muggle stuff in Diagon Alley. Sounds like something my dad would like," Ron said. "Did you get him a copy?"

"No. I didn't." Hermione was not certain whether she ought to feel frustrated or guilty. Both, probably. She pinched her lips and shrugged. "I'll go back, or give him this one or something. Anyway. I went to the Pepper Pot, and they were all out of the sort of beans you like. Which is fine by me, since they make you so gassy I can scarcely breathe in here after you eat them."

Ron scoffed and bent to pick up the bags of groceries. He hauled them into the kitchen, and Hermione put her hands on her hips as she watched him put little bags and jars into their cupboards.

Hermione and Ron had been married for four years now. She was working at the Ministry, still in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, though she had an interview coming up for a position in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Ron had left the Auror force and now worked with George to help make Weasley's Wizard Wheezes a bigger success than ever. Ron and Hermione often socialised with Ginny and Harry, who had just had their first son, James. In fact, the night before, Hermione and Ron had been at the Potters' townhouse talking whilst James slept - periodically waking for a feed. They'd stayed until eleven or so, until Ginny had finally told her brother that it was time to go home.

A late night, perhaps, but nothing that justified sleeping until half past ten, Hermione thought a bit crossly. She swallowed hard and scuffed her foot, mumbling,

"Sorry about that comment. The beans. I didn't mean it."

"You did; they make me tremendously smelly." Ron smirked at Hermione as he shut the cupboards in the kitchen and shoved the empty shopping bags into a drawer. He shrugged. "Just the same. Listen, I'm meeting with George this afternoon to talk about another shop location."

"A new location?" Hermione raised her eyebrows. "Where? Ron, this is big news. A huge investment of time, money, energy… don't go leaping into -"

"Sorry; do you not want the business to be successful?" Ron asked, and Hermione was slightly taken aback as she choked out a little noise and said,

"Of course I do. But where are you going to put another Weasley's Wizard Wheezes?"

"Hogsmeade, of course," Ron said. He opened a cupboard and pulled out an apple. He bit into it and talked through his chewing. "We make loads of money off the Hogwarts kids before they go off to school, when they're home on holidays. Zonko's used to rake it in, but they closed during the war and never reopened. There's a huge opportunity."

Hermione hesitated. "If you and George are prepared to put in the money, and the time, and the effort, then you know I'll support you. I only hope it's the right move."

Ron slammed down his apple, sending a spray of juice onto the wooden countertop, and swallowed his bite. He pointed a finger at Hermione and said,

"I have been nothing but happy for you about the new position at the Ministry."

"I haven't got the position yet," Hermione said helplessly. "I still have to interview for it."

"Come on. You know you'll get it." Ron rolled his eyes and picked his apple back up. Hermione felt her cheeks go hot. She crossed her arms and demanded,

"Why? Because I'm Hermione Granger, war heroine? Because I'm famous? They'll just hand me the job?"

"No! Because you're bloody brilliant, that's why!" Ron was spitting out little bits of apple now, and Hermione suddenly felt a bit embarrassed at having accused him. She gulped.

"Oh."

"So the least you could do is be happy that George and me are hoping to open a new shop," Ron said angrily.

_George and I, not George and me, _Hermione thought, but she didn't say anything. She sighed and said to Ron,

"If it's the right thing for Weasley's Wizard Wheezes to make a move on the old Zonko's location, you know I've got your back. I've always got your back, Ron. One hundred percent."

"Have you?" He narrowed his eyes at her, and she tipped her head.

"Well, what does that mean?"

"Last night, Ginny teased you that your clock was ticking, and you slapped my shoulder and told me to get on with it. With having a baby." Ron swiped his wrist across his wet lips and sniffed. Hermione shrugged and said,

"I don't suppose Ginny realised that that joke was in poor taste. Sometimes Ginny says things without realising -"

"You played along with her," Ron said. "As if we haven't been trying for almost a year. Told me to get on with it, right there in front of Harry and Ginny."

"They don't _know_, Ron," Hermione hissed. "They don't know that every month I bleed hurts like a knife going through us. They don't realise that. Ginny thought she was being funny."

"I didn't think it was funny," Ron complained, and Hermione let out a long breath. She walked closer to him and whispered,

"Well, I'm sorry I played along. Sorry I told you your favourite beans make you smell bad. Open your new shop. I'm sorry."

Ron wrapped his arms around Hermione and kissed her forehead. He left his lips there for a long moment, and then he asked against her skin,

"Are you in love with me, 'Mione?"

"Of course I am," Hermione answered numbly, but her stomach coiled coldly. Ron rubbed between her shoulder blades, and she felt odd. She didn't feel the comfortable intimacy she ought to feel with her husband, she realised. She felt like she was getting over an argument with an old friend. She raised her eyes to Ron and searched his gaze, but in his eyes she could see that he knew, too. He nodded and took a step back, sniffing a little as he said,

"I'm going to get dressed and cleaned up. So I can meet with George about the new shop."

"Right." Hermione drummed her fingers on the kitchen counter as he walked away, and she shut her eyes tightly.

* * *

_29 September 1968_

Tom Marvolo Riddle had left England for the Continent with the intention of learning the Dark Arts to the fullest extent anyone had ever studied them. He went to Saint-Malo in France and studied bone magic, the art of utilising every part of human or animal bone in spellwork, potions-making, and the cursing of objects. He went to Sopron in Hungary and studied pyromancy, examining the many ways fire could make its way into his magical arsenal.

Next, he went to Transylvania and studied blood rituals with Vampires. He then went to Norway and studied the use of Ancient Runes in Dark Magic. Next up was Spain, where he learnt to harness the weather for nefarious purposes. All the while, he read book after book, combing through private libraries in the homes of Dark witches and wizards as he studied ancient rites, learnt spell after spell, and became proficient in the ways of the Dark sorcerers who had come before him. He had made Horcruxes, and so death and darkness were no strangers to him, but after years on the Continent learning the most forbidden knowledge the wizarding world had to offer, he was a changed man. After that time on the Continent, after all that study, Tom Marvolo Riddle was gone.

Lord Voldemort returned to Great Britain in the early spring of 1968, looking haggard and worn but flush with power he had never possessed. His features, he knew, were chipped and blurred by the creation of his Horcruxes. One dark eye drooped a little. One cheekbone looked like it had taken a few too many punches. His skin was very pale, and his lips had a scar running vertically down one side as though someone had sliced him open. Gone was the handsome young Tom Riddle after whom all the girls at Hogwarts had pined. In his place was the vividly dynamic Lord Voldemort.

He began meeting with his old school friends straight away upon his return to Britain. Abraxas Malfoy was the first to welcome him, even inviting him to stay in a suite in Malfoy Manor. Voldemort gladly accepted the offer, as the accommodations were more than comfortable and he needed time to build up his finances. Malfoy helped host gatherings of the old crowd - Lestrange, Mulciber, Nott, Avery, Crabbe, Goyle, Rookwood, and all the others who had once been a part of Tom Riddle's gang. New friends clamoured to join in, including the Russian Antonin Dolohov, and Cygnus Black III introduced his eldest daughter, Bellatrix, whom he claimed possessed a keen interest in ideas like Voldemort's.

No one seemed quite sure what to call Lord Voldemort by the time autumn rolled around. It was clear by September 1968 that _Tom Riddle_ was a name no longer in use, and most of Voldemort's friends had accepted his new title as his name. They mostly defaulted to calling him 'Sir' in person, though of course he would have preferred something substantially more deferential. For now, 'Sir' would do.

Today, the twenty-ninth of September, Voldemort sat at his desk in the office Abraxas Malfoy had granted him. It was a stately room with wood paneling and a window that looked out upon the perfectly manicured gardens of Malfoy Manor. There were books filling the shelves along one wall, and there was a drinks cart stocked with firewhisky and gin and Elf-made wine. Voldemort sat at his stout desk and turned his attention to the stack of letters that had come by owl for him to the manor this morning and had been smoothed out upon the desk's surface. He sniffed a little as he read the first.

_Tom,_

_I am troubled to hear of the tone you have been taking since your return to Britain. It troubles me to think that you have been hosting parties and get-togethers with blood purity extremists. This is particularly troubling to me since I remember well the boy in the Muggle orphanage. Please do not let this hypocrisy cause any harm, Tom. Consider your actions carefully._

_Albus Dumbledore_

Voldemort pinched his lips and picked up the letter, tearing it in half and then tearing it again. He tossed the pieces into the air and swiped his hand at them, nonverbally and wandlessly Vanishing them into Nonbeing. He loathed Albus Dumbledore more than he loathed just about anyone else in existence. Perhaps he'd loathed his Muggle father more. Perhaps not. It would be a close contest.

The next letter was from Bellatrix Black, stating that she would appreciate the opportunity to speak with Lord Voldemort himself over the Christmas holidays about a potential place within any organisation he was forming. Voldemort frowned and pulled out a parchment, dipping a quill into ink and writing,

_Miss Black,_

_I shall be more than happy to meet with you at Christmas. Kindly exercise more caution and discretion in __future_ _communication._

_LV_

He set the letter to Bellatrix Black aside to send off to her and Vanished the one she'd sent him. He pulled out the last letter and noticed that it had been enchanted. A decorative scroll weaved itself repeatedly around the perimeter of the parchment, and the words bled up from the page and then shimmered in metallic black ink.

_The Avery Family Requests the Honour of Your Presence_

_at a Masquerade Ball to Celebrate Autumn_

_Saturday, the fifth of __October, 1968_

_at 7:00 in the evening_

_Avery Hall__, Yorkshire_

_Kindly come Masked_

Voldemort snorted rather loudly as he read the invitation again. He sighed. He did not care for large parties. They were boisterous. People got drunk. There was always the expectation of dancing, and that was always awkward. But he knew they were important, too. Over the summer, there had been a few weddings to which he'd been invited, and he'd used them as opportunities to reintroduce himself to the Pureblood community as Lord Voldemort. Now he had another chance to show himself off as a powerful new force in the wizarding world, one to be taken seriously.

Of course, he'd have a mask on the entire time. Still.

He filled out the little attached RSVP card and noted that he'd be coming without a guest, and he set it aside with his letter to go off to Hogwarts. He blinked and dragged his teeth over his lip, supposing he ought to make his way to Diagon Alley for some proper party attire before everyone else made off with the best fashions.

* * *

"Hermione? A parcel was just delivered to the departmental desk for you." Igraine Hartwick, the secretary for the Department for the Control and Regulation of Magical Creatures, appeared at the open doorway of Hermione's small office. Hermione looked up from the book she was reading - a tome about humane infestation management - and smiled weakly.

"A parcel?" she repeated. "Who from?"

"Actually, the wizard who delivered it didn't say who it was from," Igraine told Hermione. Suddenly Hermione found herself more than a little suspicious. She eyed the small package, wrapped in brown paper, in Igraine's hand, and she asked,

"What did the wizard look like? The one who brought you the parcel?"

"He was an old man. I dunno… looked like an old man." Igraine was not exactly the brightest creature. She twirled one of her pigtail braids and shrugged. "He had, you know… white hair. Glasses. Wrinkles."

"Yes. Thanks. Can you set it down? I'd like to check it for Curses." Hermione cautiously pulled out her wand. Igraine set the parcel down on Hermione's desk, and Hermione aimed her wand at it. "_Basorium_ _Revelio. __Hexium_ _Revelio. __Calumnus_ _Revelio._"

When her incantations turned up nothing, Hermione swallowed hard and said to Igraine,

"You can never be too certain. I get targeted, you know. By people who are still bitter about the war."

"Of course." Igraine nodded vigorously. "I'll leave you to it, then."

Hermione watched as Igraine walked away. Hermione aimed her wand at the door and nonverbally cast a _Colloportus_ spell to shut and lock it. She had no idea what was in this parcel, but she had an odd feeling that she needed to open it in private. She pulled at the brown paper wrapping up the package until it tore and gave way, and from inside, a piece of strange-looking jewellery thunked onto Hermione's desk.

Only, she realised at once, it wasn't jewellery. It was a Time-Turner.

This one looked like a capsule, a slick cylinder of shiny silver with filigree carving decorating it. In the centre of the capsule was a tiny hourglass filled with white sand. The entire thing was suspended on a delicate silver chain. Hermione's heart began to race, and her stomach felt sick. Hadn't all the Time-Turners been destroyed? Or, at least, they'd been made useless. Where had this one come from? And why was it being delivered to her by some mysterious old wizard? There was a folded letter inside the parcel, she saw. She pulled it out and began reading the neat script on the parchment.

_Dear Hermione,_

_You must be wondering where this Time-Turner has come from, and why you have it. This Time-Turner, unlike the one you used to attend Far Too Many Classes (and to save a very fortunate hippogriff) is a device of the truest sort. You see, this Time-Turner has been specifically crafted for you using magic never before put into action. Every single rotation of this Time-Turner sends the traveller back in time exactly one year. _

_There's only one catch. In the making of this Time-Turner, its creators were unable to find a way to effectively and safely travel forward in time without repercussions to timelines and bodily harm. Therefore, this is a one-way Time-Turner. Each rotation goes back a year, and the traveller will never, ever come forward again._

_You have been given this Time-Turner, which is unique and very dangerous, with the belief that you are the only witch alive who possesses the capability to use it properly. During the Second Wizarding War, you made endless sacrifices for the good of the community, for the people you loved. We, who created this One-Way Time-Turner, are asking you to make the greatest sacrifice of all… transferring your future into the past for the betterment of us all._

_Think of Molly Weasley, who grieves her son Fred and her wounded sons Bill and George. Think of the students killed at the Battle of Hogwarts. Think of the innocent Muggles turned into Inferi by Lord Voldemort. And then ponder to yourself, 'What if I could keep all of that from happening? What if I could change the past for the improvement of the future?' Would you, Hermione Granger, give deeply of yourself for the wizarding world again?_

_On the 5th of __October, 1968__, Lord Voldemort will be at __Avery Hall_ _in Yorkshire at a Masquerade Ball. Go there and introduce yourself to him. Ingratiate yourself to him; he will be looking for interesting friends and allies. You may surprise yourself, Hermione, with how much change you can bring about from within._

_We beg of you to use our creation. We are sorry to ask it. We are grieving our lost. You are our hope._

_One year for every turn. 1968._

_Very sincerely,_

_O.S. and friends_

**Author's Note: Woo ****hooooo****! New Tomione story! I'm so excited about this one, guys. I have so much action, intrigue, and, of course, Tomione (****Volmione****?!) goodness in store for this one. For those joining me from **_**Inimica**__**, Amator**_ **\- thanks for sticking with me! I hope you'll enjoy this one. Please do leave a review. They're valued like Galleons. :****)**


	2. All She Could Do Was Try

_30 September 2004_

Hermione poked her wooden spoon at the sausages she was cooking up. They sizzled and crackled on the cooking surface as the spell she'd cast to quickly sear them went through the meat. Soon enough, they were fully aromatic and filled the kitchen with a spicy scent that lured Ron up from where he sat on the divan.

"Sausages?" he asked, munching a scone. Hermione scowled at him and said,

"You'll spoil your dinner."

"Thanks, Mum," he teased. Hermione was in no mood for playful banter. She just pulled the sausages off the skillet and Scoured it clean, cooling it down with a quick charm and putting it back in the cupboard. She scooped out some mashed potato with butter onto plates for herself and Ron, and she asked him,

"Get two Butterbeers out, will you?"

"Oh. I drank the last one before you got home from work." Ron's face darkened, and Hermione pursed her lips. She shook her head and asked,

"Did it occur to you to go buy some more?"

"No, it didn't." Ron took his plate of food and pulled a glass out of the cupboard. He filled it with water from the tap, and Hermione noticed that he hadn't gotten her a glass of water. She was suddenly very angry with him, angrier than she'd been in a long while. She reached into her pocket and felt the Time-Turner there, the shiny silver capsule that had been delivered to her office.

"So, George and I are thinking that the Hogsmeade location is a good idea," Ron was saying as he went to the dining table, "but we'll each need to make a sizeable investment up front."

"What sort of investment?" Hermione asked, and Ron gave her a weighty look.

"Fred wouldn't have hesitated."

"Fred isn't here," Hermione said, and she immediately set down her plate and touched at her forehead, whispering, "I'm sorry. That was awful."

"You're right. Fred's not here, so I'm helping run the business he started," Ron said sharply. "My brother's dead, so I'm trying to expand on what he left behind. Is that all right with you, 'Mione?"

"I said _I'm sorry_," Hermione said quietly. She sat down at the table with Ron and folded her hands. "I need to visit my parents again tomorrow. My mother's frightening me a bit."

Ron chomped on a bite of sausage and insisted through his chewing, "It could just be regular old memory stuff, Hermione. Old people -"

"She isn't that old, Ronald, and you know it. She hasn't got dementia. She's got short-term memory issues, and I'm quite certain it's related to the work I had to do on her mind during the war." Hermione felt her cheeks go hot as she stared at her plate. "My dad says she went into a tea shop the other day and called his mobile phone frantically asking him how she'd gotten there. She left the stove on and burned food; she got out of the shower with the water running for over an hour."

"You did what you had to do," Ron reminded her. "You protected them from Voldemort. You went and found them when the war was over. You did more advanced memory work than any Ministry Obliviator could possibly do."

"Well, something went wrong," Hermione sighed. She poked at her sausage with her fork and began murmuring names. "James and Lily Potter. Remus Lupin. Sirius Black. Nymphadora Tonks. Bathilda Bagshot. Alastor Moody. Colin Creevey. Severus Snape. Albus Dumbledore. Fred Weasley."

"Right. You're being awfully morbid, so if you'd care to explain yourself." Ron let his fork drop to his plate, and Hermione raised her eyes to him. He glared at her and tossed his hands up. "I fought in the war, too, Hermione. I've got scars just like you. I lost people, just like you. Why are we sitting here listing names?"

"Don't you sometimes wish we could make it so it never happened?" Hermione asked him. Ron scoffed. He swigged at his water and told her,

"This isn't our third year where we saved Buckbeak, Hermione. It isn't like we can go back and stop Voldemort from ever killing Harry's parents, or dividing up the wizarding world and making everybody hate each other. It isn't like we could stop the wars."

Hermione put a bite of mashed potato into her mouth and swallowed it. She stared at Ron and finally asked,

"If you could stop the wars, though, would you?"

He narrowed his eyes and said, "Yeah. Of course I would. You think I wouldn't give anything to save those people? Course I'd change it all. I'd give my life ten times over if it meant all those people you just named got to live, Hermione, but it doesn't work like that. We're the survivors. We're here, married. This life we're living is the only thing we've got. So."

He began to tuck into his food with gusto then, and Hermione just studied him. He'd asked her if she was in love with him. She'd realised that she was not, in fact, as in love with him as a wife ought to be with her husband. She was a witch who had married her best friend. Four years earlier, it had seemed like the right thing to do, after all they'd been through, to promise to spend their lives together. But they argued all the time. Sex, which was an unsuccessful attempt at creating a baby, was almost awkward between them. It certainly wasn't the steamy sort of affair one expected between married people. Hermione blinked at Ron and realised she wasn't meant to be with him. Not like this.

She thought of her mother, whose mind had been addled by the memory work Hermione had been forced to inflict upon her during the war. She thought of Molly and Arthur Weasley's unquenchable grief. She thought of Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, James and Lily Potter, Severus Snape… all dead. She thought of the students who had been slain at their own school in a mighty, terrible battle. She thought of Muggle after Muggle being murdered and reanimated into Inferi. She thought of Death Eaters terrorising the Quidditch World Cup, of the way Bill and Fleur's wedding had been sacked. She thought of the way the Ministry of Magic had fallen to forces of evil. She thought of it all, and then she thought of the Time-Turner in her pocket.

_If you could stop the wars, though, would you?_ she'd asked her husband, and Ron had replied that of course he would, that he would give his life to save the dead and to change what had happened.

Hermione pushed back her chair and excused herself quietly from the table. Her heart began to race inside her chest. She needed to act now, she thought. If she thought about this too long, she would panic and destroy the Time-Turner. If she considered what all of this meant too deeply, she would not take the actions "_O.S. and friends_" had begged her to take. She needed to give of herself again to save wizardkind. She needed to surrender her future to the past, to alter the course of what had happened so that the fallen could live full lives and the destruction she'd experienced would never come to pass.

"Ron?" she said, and he turned from the table to look at her. He was chewing a bite of food, and she just stared at him for a moment as she told him, "I'm not hungry. I'm going to go out and buy some Butterbeer. Anything else we need?"

"Erm… could use some more black ink, if you're out," Ron said. Hermione nodded. She picked up her black leather handbag - she'd learnt after their seventh year that keeping an Undetectable Extension Charm on her bag at all times was wise - and carried it into her bedroom. She shut the bedroom door carefully and began to move with swift, smooth motions. She opened her wardrobe and took out all of her clothes, stuffing them into the handbag. Knickers and bras, blouses, skirts, outer robes, dresses, denims, jumpers, t-shirts… she had quite a mix of Muggle and magical attire. She shoved in winter hats and cloaks. She went into the bathroom and took her toothbrush, the rest of her toiletries, and a bar of soap, and into the bag it all went. Hermione went to the bedside table drawer and opened it, feeling guilty about taking money she shared with Ron. But she would surely need money where she was going. So she took a drawstring bag that she knew held about two hundred Galleons, and she tossed it into the handbag. She cleared her throat, looked around her bedroom, and felt her eyes burn.

The traveller, she'd been told, would never, ever return forward in time. This was a One-Way Time Turner. She was doing this for the good of the wizarding community. She was doing this so that Remus Lupin and Sirius Black would be good friends with James Potter as adults. She was doing this so that Harry and Ron would meet as first-years at school and bond over Wizard's Chess instead of forging connections through trauma. She was moving through time to spare Severus Snape and Draco Malfoy from being caught in a terrible game involving the murder of Albus Dumbledore. She would be using this device so that Neville Longbottom's parents would have never been tortured into oblivion. If Hermione could go back and make just the right changes, inflict just the right shifts, perhaps the world would be different enough that some pain would be averted.

"You all right in there?" called Ron, and as he opened the bedroom door, Hermione rushed out toward him and flung her arms around him. He staggered back a step, and she whispered,

"I do love you. So much. Ron, I love you so much."

"I love you, too, 'Mione," Ron said. He pulled back, and he smelled of sausage and potato. Hermione thought to herself that she was going to immortalise him just as he was right now, eating the dinner she'd cooked him, his shirt collar open, his hair mussed. Her eyes burned, and she whispered,

"I'm going to the loo before I go get that Butterbeer. Be right back."

"All right." He looked concerned, but Hermione nodded firmly and rushed back into the bedroom. She moved into the bathroom and slammed the door shut, pressing her back against it and driving her head against the wood. She let out a shaking breath as she reached into her pocket and pulled out the silver capsule that had been sent to her by _O.S. and friends._ She stared at the Time-Turner in her palm for a very long while before finally dragging the delicate silver chain over her head.

Thirty-six turns. She needed to go back to 1968. She had no idea whether this Time-Turner would transport her to the exact same physical place, or whether she'd move. She pulled out her wand, knowing she needed to be prepared for anything. She looked around the bathroom and frantically tried to convince herself not to do this. She had an interview at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. She and Ron were trying to have a baby.

She was the hope to reverse the suffering she'd witnessed.

"Goodbye, Ron," she whispered, staring at the silvery Time-Turner. "Goodbye, Mum. Goodbye, Dad. Goodbye, Harry and Ginny and James. Goodbye, everybody else. I promise, I shall try to make you all very happy."

Then she flicked at the Time-Turner, and she began to count.

One…

Two…

Three...

* * *

_30 September 1968_

Thirty-six.

The world around Hermione stopped buzzing and whirring, and she realised her time travel had ceased. But she was still in the tiny bathroom where she'd been when she'd left. She panicked suddenly, wondering who had lived here in 1968. She stepped away from the door and slowly pulled it open. The bedroom she'd left behind looked a little different here. Its current inhabitants had a gaudy bedspread of yellow and orange, with a matching piece of art on the wall. Hermione tiptoed out into the bedroom and aimed her wand outward. She didn't hear any voices in the flat. No one was at home, it seemed.

She snuck as quickly as she possibly could out through the sitting room, past the kitchen where she'd cooked dinner thirty-six years in the future. Once it was obvious that no one was about, Hermione whirled hard to her right and Disapparated, focusing hard on Diagon Alley. She needed to orient herself here, she thought.

She landed hard on the cobblestones in front of Flourish and Blotts, and as Hermione looked around, she thought that the street looked remarkably similar to the Diagon Alley she'd known, except for a few storefronts that had changed ownership. Madam Malkin's signage appeared brand-new, and of course Weasley's Wizard Wheezes wasn't here. Brilliary's Scouring Services had a small office set up next to Flourish and Blotts, and Hermione knew that they'd gone out of business in the early 1990s after more people had begun to acquire House-Elves.

Suddenly it all set in. She was in a different time. She was in 1968. She'd come back in time, and she was never, ever going forward. She'd taken a One-Way Time-Turner through the decades. Hermione let out a shaking breath and pulled off the Time-Turner from around her neck. She tucked it into her pocket and put her wand away.

"Keep up, Severus; your father will be very angry if we're home late."

Hermione gasped as a weak-looking witch walked by with a scraggly-haired boy of seven or eight trailing behind her. He had been gazing into a window, but he trotted to keep up with his mother as she hustled toward the Apothecary. Severus. Severus Snape? Hermione's eyes went wide. She blinked quickly, her lips trembling as she touched at them.

"Oh, what have I done?" she whispered. She thought of Ron, of having just left him behind at the dinner table as she time travelled in the bathroom. She blinked through tears, imagining Ron and Harry and Ginny trying to desperately figure out what had happened to Hermione. She ought to have left a note, she thought suddenly and frantically. What had she been thinking, not leaving a note? How cruel and awful of her, to just vanish, to just disappear and leave them all wondering what had become of her. What the blazes was the matter with her?

"Sorry; are you all right?"

Hermione whirled and almost bumped into a red-haired witch standing before her. The witch looked an awful lot like Molly Weasley, but some of her features were just a little off. Hermione nodded.

"I'm fine."

"You don't look fine," said the witch. "I'm Betsy Prewett. What are you called, dear?"

"Hermione." She suddenly remembered this witch from Bill and Fleur's wedding. This was Ron's maternal grandmother. Mrs Prewett put her hand on Hermione's shoulder and asked,

"Can I help you?"

"I'm… I'm all right. Thank you." Hermione flashed Mrs Prewett a weak little smile. "I'm going to get a room at the Leaky Cauldron. I'll be fine."

"Right." Mrs Prewett narrowed her eyes. "A room at the Leaky Cauldron. Be well, dear."

Hermione watched as Mrs Prewett walked away, and she huffed out a confused little breath. She stalked towards the Leaky Cauldron, her legs steadier than her breath or stomach. Suddenly, Hermione found herself quite grateful for the way that wizarding fashion had stagnated in ways Muggle fashion had not. She didn't look out of place here in a simple woolen skirt and blouse with an outer robe, which was what she'd worn to work at the Ministry before coming through time.

Time.

She paused inside the Leaky Cauldron, remembering all the times she'd had here with her friends, friends she would probably never see again. But she was trying to save people, she reminded herself. She was here on a mission. She was here with a goal.

Hermione got herself a table and a bowl of potato stew and a Butterbeer. She hadn't eaten with Ron before leaving her time. She asked after a room and was given a key to Room Four after an exchange of coin.

Lord Voldemort was going to be at a masquerade ball on the fifth of October, Hermione had been told, at Avery Hall. Hermione needed to be at that ball. She would need to get appropriate attire so that she could blend into the masked party, and then she would need to introduce herself to Voldemort. That thought terrified her. The idea of trying to make him like her in any way was horrifying. What would it accomplish, she wondered? How would ingratiating herself, as _O.S. and friends_ had said, save lives?

Hermione had a sudden idea. She could worm her way into the inner circle of this emerging Lord Voldemort, still known to most as Tom Riddle. He would see into her mind with Legilimency, of course, and there was no way for her to control that. But she could pretend that she'd come here to save _him_. She could pretend that she was here to save him because she'd always secretly been sympathetic. She could try and convince him that she was, in fact, in favour of his victory. And she could win his trust.

_It would have all been better if you'd won,_ she'd say to him at some point. _If instead of fighting against you, I'd been able to fight for you… but being a Muggle-born, I wasn't allowed. Now I can do my part to ensure your victory._ She could try and convince him to keep her secret. Perhaps he would like that - the idea of a secret time traveller who had come back in time filled with regret about having fought him.

It was complicated. It would take time. And it was very likely to fail, making Hermione's entire mission here a waste of her life. But she had no choice. She'd come back thirty-six years. All she could do now was try.

**Author's Note: So, Hermione's gone back in time. And her plan seems a little… well, it seems like it might just fall apart at the seams. But it's like she says - all the can do is try. What will happen when she first encounters Voldemort at the masquerade ball? Thank you so much to those who have decided to join me on this story. I appreciate your feedback.**


	3. When Did You Come From?

_5 October 1968_

Lord Voldemort stalked down Knockturn Alley, wishing to himself that he had the wherewithal to send others to do his shopping for him. He wasn't Tom Riddle anymore; he shouldn't have to run these sorts of piddling errands. Of course, it wasn't as though he were only here for potions supplies and a new pair of boots. He also needed a trim from Podric Batworthy XXIII, esteemed groomer of wizards. That wasn't anything he could send some lackey to do for him.

Voldemort walked into the barber's shop and heard a little bell chime overhead as he shut the door behind him. A wizard in his forties, with a very impressive beard, emerged from the back of the barbershop. Podric had been a Ravenclaw when Tom Riddle had attended Hogwarts, and he'd inherited his family's barber shop after graduating. Voldemort nodded tightly and said to Podric,

"Just a trim this morning."

"You and everyone else going to the Averys' autumn fete," Podric Batworthy sniffed. "Do come in. I'll be quick."

"Quick and careful, I hope." Voldemort raised his eyebrows as he meandered around the counter and made his way to the barber's chair. Podric smirked as he wrapped a black cape around Voldemort's shoulders. He hooked the back of the cape and pulled his wand out from a holster at his hip. He aimed it at Voldemort's head, taking a step back, and incanted with a smooth wave,

"_Diffindo__._ _Capillum_ _Fabricavit__._"

Lord Voldemort watched in the mirror as his dark waves, with little strands of grey, were shortened and neatened. The hair cropped closer to his head, and strands began to fall toward the ground. The hair Vanished into Non-Being as it fell toward the ground. Voldemort's side-parted style began to look more sophisticated, his sideburns tightening up and his receding hairline looking far more orderly. Within moments, it was obvious that Lord Voldemort had had a fresh haircut. He nodded and waited for Podric Batworthy to unlatch his cape, and then he stood from his chair and reached into his pocket. He passed over a few Galleons and muttered,

"Right. Thank you."

"Enjoy the ball, Mr Riddle." Podric flashed a small smile to Voldemort, who narrowed his eyes back and muttered,

"That isn't my name anymore. Good day, Mr Batworthy."

* * *

"Sir! Welcome to Avery Hall." Maren Avery, the wife of Voldemort's old compatriot, curtsied in her elegant plum-coloured velvet gown. She held out her hand, and suddenly Voldemort realised he was meant to touch her. He took her hand and bowed a little.

"Madam Avery." He glanced about the Baroque foyer of Avery Hall, which had been adorned with silks and tapestries in purples, oranges, reds, and yellows. He smiled a bit at her and lowered her hand. "Your home looks lovelier than ever this evening."

"Edmund and I are so glad you've come. Aren't we, Edmund?" Maren got the attention of her husband, who was chatting with an ancient masked Shacklebolt witch. Edmund Avery seemed to realise that Voldemort had arrived, and he snapped to attention. He bowed his head and said,

"So good to see you here, sir."

"Avery." Voldemort gave a crisp nod. "How are things in the Department of International Magical Cooperation?"

"It's interesting, with the situation at MACUSA," said Edmund Avery. "The repeal of Rappaport's Law has caused much uproar. It's an exciting time to be in the department."

"I hope you'll keep me apprised of everything happening," Voldemort said quite meaningfully. "I'd appreciate a weekly owl, an update."

"Of course, sir." Avery nodded. He had on a chocolate brown waistcoat and matching dress robe, with a brown silk half mask. He smiled a bit and said, "Do enjoy yourself at the masquerade, sir."

"Thank you. Madam Avery." Voldemort bowed again to Maren, who flashed him a happy little smile and adjusted her lilac-coloured mask. Voldemort moved away toward the ballroom, which was similarly outfitted to the grand foyer. The white walls had been draped with billowing silks in autumnal colours. Falling leaves fluttered from the ceiling, enchanted to disappear before hitting the revelers. In the corner, a string ensemble played beautiful music, and people milled about with drinks and little plates of savoury foods. Voldemort decided to feed himself before socialising, so that he wasn't attempting to network with mouthfuls of onion tart.

He went over to a long table set up along a wall and began filling a small plate with cubes of cheese, grainy crackers, and stuffed mushrooms. Then he picked up a glass of red wine and made his way to a high table, watching the Purebloods laugh and talk.

Cygnus Black III and his wife Druella were very obvious, despite their masks. Druella and Bellatrix looked quite a lot alike, Voldemort thought, though their younger daughters took after Cygnus. Druella was eagerly explaining something to her sister-in-law, Walburga Black, who had come dressed in solemn, funereal garb. Walburga's cousin-husband Orion looked bored, staring over his shoulder at a pretty, younger masked witch who was sipping wine and laughing at something her companion was saying.

Voldemort plopped a mushroom into his mouth and thought to himself that all he wanted was these people's adulation. All he wanted was for them to think he was powerful and mighty the way he knew himself to be. He knew more than any of them could ever dream of learning. He possessed more magical ability than any of them could ever hope to possess. His mother had been from the House of Gaunt. He might have come from a Muggle orphanage, but he had killed his filthy Muggle father and had created Horcruxes. He was no Half-Blood weakling. He deserved to be here. More than that, he deserved a place atop wizarding society. He deserved to be Lord Voldemort, not Tom Riddle. Some of his old friends recognised his new name, but he knew that none of them truly acknowledged what he was destined to become. Abraxas Malfoy came close, but not even he was fully aware of Voldemort's potential.

Abraxas gave himself away at the masquerade with his long, silky blond hair. His wife, Sylvie, was a French witch who had attended Beauxbatons and had been more than happy to marry into the Malfoy fortune. She had her arm around Abraxas' waist, and Voldemort could see that Sylvie's elegant ensemble was distinctly French - far more form-fitting and sparkling than anything the English witches were wearing.

Voldemort's eyes flicked over to where one of those English witches stood alone, clutching a full glass of wine and studying the room. He frowned. Her metallic gold mask covered only her eyes and cheekbones, but even with most of her face visible, Voldemort did not recognise her. She had honey-coloured hair that had been pulled back into a sleek style with a black veil falling from it. Her dress robes were comparatively simple; she wore a high-necked burgundy dress with black lace trim and gold spangles. She did not look nearly as elaborately costumed, nor as confident, as the other witches in the room.

And he did not know her.

Voldemort set down the cracker he'd been eating, and he sipped from his glass of red wine. He set the glass on the table and walked away, off toward the mysterious witch. She seemed to notice him walking toward her, and suddenly she dashed to a nearby table and drank deeply from her wine. Voldemort felt his brows furrow, more confused than ever, and he considered pushing into her mind with Legilimency. But most people could feel the little tingle of invasion, and he wasn't ready to frighten her off. Not yet.

"Good evening," he said as he approached the young witch. She stared right at him, her caramel eyes wide and searching. She locked onto his gaze, realisation coming over her. She recognised him, he could tell. She knew who he was, and it _meant_ something to her. He cleared his throat and bowed a bit. "I know we're all masked, but I confess I can't say that I know you. I would have thought I'd know everyone at a party like this."

"Indeed." The witch's voice shook a little, and Voldemort narrowed his eyes. She was frightened, he thought. She was afraid of him. She seemed to steady herself, and she licked her lips as she told him, "My name is Hermione."

"Hermione," Voldemort repeated. He looked around the room and laughed softly, shaking his head. "I'm intimately familiar with all the members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, Hermione, and I don't think you are one of them."

"No. I'm not," she said, "but neither are you… Lord Voldemort."

He felt cold then, and he studied her face for a long moment. He needed to look into her mind, he thought. He needed to see what she was thinking. He pursed his lips and held out his hand.

"Would you care to dance, Hermione?"

"Erm… yes, all right." She very hesitantly placed her fingers onto his palm, and she let him lead her toward the dance floor. He watched as a few other party guests eyed the two of them, their faces warped with bemusement. Nobody else knew her, either, he thought. She was a complete stranger. Who was this witch?

He pulled her into a rather tight dancing stance on the floor, touching his hand between her shoulder blades and wrapping his fingers around hers. They began to sway, and Hermione's breath trembled in her nostrils as she moved with him. He stared down at her and incanted nonverbally, _Legilimens._

_Hermione was with a scraggly, black-haired boy and a ginger-haired boy in a snowy wood, all of them aiming spells at Salazar __Slytherin_'_s locket in an attempt to destroy the __Horcrux_ _within it..._

_She was lying on the ground in the Ministry of Magic, writhing in pain from the spell Antonin Dolohov had ripped through her…_

_She was watching a colour television in her parents' house whilst her father chatted on a small handheld telephone behind her._

_She was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, the ginger-haired boy snoozing beside her._

Voldemort pulled out of Hermione's mind and somehow managed to keep dancing. He gulped so hard that it physically hurt to work past the knot in his throat, and he asked her softly,

"When did you come from?"

She sighed.

"When?"

"I can plainly see that you have travelled through time," Voldemort nodded. "You had the locket. You were wounded by Dolohov. You and I become enemies in my future, it would seem. When did you come from?"

Hermione blinked. "Two thousand and four."

Voldemort squeezed her hand a little and compressed his fingers on her back. He struggled to keep calm, not to whip his wand out and murder her right here in front of everyone.

"Give me a very good reason not to kill you," he told her.

"I have come to save you," Hermione told him, and he spat out,

"Liar."

"I have come to save…" Hermione's eyes watered. She blinked quickly. She was about to cry, Voldemort thought, and he panicked suddenly. He couldn't be dancing with a crying woman. That would not do. Hermione whispered, "I made terrible mistakes. So will you."

"Whatever do you mean?" Voldemort snapped. The song ended, and Hermione started to pull away, but Voldemort refused to release her. He growled down at her, "What do you _mean_, you and I made mistakes? What sort of mistakes?"

"You went too far," she told him, her voice gentle and quiet. She examined his eyes and whispered, "Your eyes are still dark here. They will become red. Your skin isn't grey yet. You've still got a nose."

"What the blazes are you on about?" Voldemort snarled. "_Legilimens._"

_A Killing Curse rocketed toward a towering grey figure, bald and snakelike. The grey, barefoot man with the red eyes and the missing nose let out a small noise and collapsed instantly, slumping in death. _

Voldemort pulled out of Hermione's mind and wrenched at her hand. "You destroyed my… the locket and the…"

"I was on the wrong side," Hermione said frantically. "I made the wrong decisions because I wasn't welcome in your ranks. But now I know. We needed you. I was wrong to fight against you, and I -"

"You have come back in time to destroy me before that conflict takes place." Voldemort whirled on his foot and stormed off the dance floor. He wanted her to follow him. He was luring her, enticing her to follow him. Sure enough, he heard the patter of her footsteps behind him as he went to the far side of the ballroom and out into the corridor. He stalked down the corridor and wandlessly flung open the door to a small parlour. He walked inside and then whirled around to see Hermione standing before him. She stared at him through her mask, her mouth open and her eyes desperate. Voldemort reached into his robes and pulled out his wand.

"No one here knows you," he reminded her. "No one will miss you. You've come back for nothing; you think I'll hesitate for even a moment?"

He aimed his wand at her and parted his lips to form the Killing Curse.

"I want to help you _win!_" Hermione cried, clasping her hands. "Please. You don't understand. My Lord. _My Lord! Master!"_

Voldemort froze. He blinked. He stared at Hermione and felt his wand shake in his hand. He shook his head a little and mumbled,

"I saw you trying to destroy my locket. You were fighting Dolohov."

Hermione shut her eyes. "My Lord, I was on the wrong side. I am a Muggle-born; you didn't want me. I was given a One-Way Time-Turner so that I could sacrifice my own future to save yours. Please."

Voldemort lowered his wand very slowly, his own breath quaking just a little as he whispered once more, "_Legilimens._"

_The ginger-haired boy was shouting at Hermione that she'd gone mad. They hadn't fought Voldemort together for her __to now be_ _saying that The Dark Lord had been right all along. He was going to divorce Hermione over this, he was saying. He couldn't live with a witch who would turn on her closest friends, who would betray everyone they had lost like this. How could she be saying these awful things about the wizard they'd defeated?_

Voldemort ripped himself from Hermione's mind and tried to see the lie in her eyes. He could always tell when someone was lying. He was very good at distinguishing lies from truth. But as Hermione stared at him through the metallic gold mask she wore, he saw only desperation. He saw frantic, earnest enthusiasm.

"My Lord," she said again, carefully this time, reaching into her robes and pulling out a shiny silver capsule with a white hourglass inside it, "I used this Time-Turner, specifically made to send me back to you, so that I could save you from the fate you saw in my memories. I was on the wrong side, because I did not feel I had a choice. This time, I have chosen to fight for you. If you will have me, Master."

Voldemort tipped his chin up, adjusting his own black satin mask on his face. He nodded and said to Hermione,

"Put that thing away. It's dangerous. If we're in here too long, people will assume things. Now. Let's go dance some more; we need to figure out a way to get you settled in here, Miss…?"

"Granger," Hermione said, curling up her lips and looking satisfied and relieved. "Hermione Granger."

**Author's Note: Well, well, well. Hermione's a little more shrewd and manipulative than we might have given her credit for being. She's tricked Voldemort… **_**for now. **_**Will he get suspicious of her true intentions? Will she crack in her little game? Hmm…**

**Thank you so very much for reading and reviewing. I'll update as often as possible, but I'm at a water park for the weekend (woo hoo!) so my writing time is a bit more sporadic.**


	4. Not Faint of Heart

_5 October 1968_

"So, Miss Granger." Lord Voldemort swept her back into a dancing stance and began to sway. Hermione's stomach churned as she stared up at him, studying his dark eyes through his black satin mask. He asked her quietly, "Where are you staying?"

"In a room at the Leaky Cauldron," she said. "I've been here for almost a week. I've been keeping to myself."

He nodded. Hermione struggled mightily to control her thoughts. It had occurred to her a few days earlier that Severus Snape had managed to fool Lord Voldemort for years. To be certain, Snape had been a gifted Occlumens, and Hermione lacked training in the skill. But she reckoned that if she pushed forth certain notions and ideals, and if she tried her best to conceal certain feelings from the forefront of her consciousness, she could keep up the charade she'd constructed.

She needed Voldemort to believe her when she told him that she'd come back in time to keep him from losing the wars. She needed him to believe that she had come around to the idea of him, that she had fought with Ron about it and had spent time longing for life as a Death Eater. She needed for Lord Voldemort to believe that her Time-Turner had been created and gifted so that she would be given the opportunity to hand him his victory.

Somehow, she needed her mind to convince him of all that. So she stared up at him, and she thought hard about arguing with Ron. She vividly envisioned a verbal altercation with Harry and Ginny, wherein Ginny shrieked that Hermione was no longer their friend. She thought about studying the Time-Turner in her head, and she pushed forward distinct thoughts… _This world would be so much better right now if the Dark Lord had won. If we were all living under his reign, we'd be better off. Even a Muggle-born like me. Things turned out all wrong. It was wrong of us to destroy him._

Voldemort let out a long breath as he danced with Hermione. His hand was warm on hers, she realised. She'd always envisioned him as a cold creature. His grey skin, his bald head, and his red eyes had always made him seem distinctly reptilian and frigid. But right now, his fingers were warm wrapped around hers. He had a scar, white and slightly raised, running vertically through his lips and up into one nostril. His chin looked a little chipped on one side. And it was plain through his mask that one eye drooped just a little. His skin showed signs of wrinkling, and he was quite pale. His hair, though neatly cropped and styled, was greying and receding.

Even Harry had admitted that the young Tom Riddle, of whom he'd seen visions and memories, had been handsome. And Hermione had heard rumours, mainly from old witches at the Ministry, that young Tom Riddle had been the best-looking boy to ever walk the corridors of Hogwarts. But the wizard before her, forty-one years of age and worn down by years already wallowing in Darkness, was weathered and worn. Even with him wearing a mask, Hermione could tell that he'd lost his good looks.

Was she thinking about that, she wondered? Was he inside her mind right now, reading the way she perceived him? She hoped not. She thrust forth a different idea, the thought that he was everything she'd hoped and more. She pushed toward him the notion that she was honoured to be in his very presence, the thought that she wanted to know more of him.

"Room Four," he said softly, and Hermione jolted. He hadn't been searching through the right thoughts at all. He'd been somewhere else in her head, she realised, somewhere she hadn't felt him. She nodded. Room Four at the Leaky Cauldron. Yes. That was where she was staying. Voldemort flicked his eyes down to Hermione's left hand where it rested on his shoulder, where she wore her little diamond engagement ring and her simple gold wedding band. He cleared his throat.

"That ginger boy," he said. "You married him. What is he called?"

"Ron," Hermione said plainly. "His name is Ronald Weasley."

"But you are not _Hermione Weasley_," Voldemort noted with a little smirk. Hermione scoffed and shook her head.

"Bit of a sore subject between Ron and me," Hermione admitted. Then, realising at once that she was telling the truth, she said, "There were a lot of sore subjects between Ron and me."

"Is that why you left him so willingly?" Voldemort asked. "Is that why you abandoned him?"

Hermione felt a sharp stab in her stomach, but she shook her head and insisted, "I didn't… I don't feel as though I've abandoned anyone, Master. I feel as though I've come to you. It's different, I think, My Lord."

He hissed out air through his teeth. He gnawed on his lip as the song ended, and he asked Hermione,

"Did many people call me that? _Master?_ In your time?"

"Not nearly as many as ought to have done," Hermione told him. "It ought to have been everybody. And it wasn't me, though it should have been. I am very sorry. I mean to do so much better for you."

"How?" Voldemort snapped. "I could just empty your mind of thoughts, dispose of you, and use the information you give me to my advantage in the future. You are nothing but a source of future memories. Once I vacate your consciousness, you will serve me no purpose. You're a Mudblood, and you fought against me in the life you lived. I should not trust you, much less keep you about. I should read every memory of yours that I can, then kill you quickly, Vanish your corpse, and use what I've learnt from you to win."

Hermione let out a shaking breath, knowing that this was her one chance to either continue in this mission or ensure her failure. She nodded up at Voldemort, letting her hands fall from him. She said in a trembling voice,

"I am ready to die, as soon as you've finished getting all the information you need. I have come to serve you, and if that means showing you what you need to know and then being… disposed of… I understand. I know I don't deserve a place in your ranks. I haven't earned it; I probably never could. And I couldn't possibly ask you to spare me after I've come through time with such sensitive information in my mind."

He narrowed his eyes at her and snarled, "Beg me to Obliviate you and turn you loose to the Muggles."

Hermione let her mouth fall open. "My Lord. That would be far more merciful than anything I… I only expect death. I came back here to save you, to ensure your victory. That means giving you the knowledge you crave, the information you require. My life is immaterial. I am -"

"You are a time traveller," Voldemort said quietly, still standing with Hermione on the dance floor. He stared down at her, and suddenly it felt rather silly for them to be standing in masks discussing the value of Hermione's life. She bowed her head and whispered,

"Do with me as you see fit, Master."

"I should like to keep you, for the time being," Voldemort sniffed, "and I should like to keep that One-Way Time-Turner of yours, as well. There may yet be use for you and for the device. I think it foolish to dispose too quickly of you before I have established whether or not I can make further use of you. If nothing else, you seem wickedly intelligent. I am still compiling my ranks. I just might have a spot for you among my… subordinates."

Hermione tried not to make a disgusted noise. The very last thing on Earth she wanted to be was one of Lord Voldemort's _subordinates. _But she had no choice. She had come back in time through the decades on a one-way voyage away from the world she'd known in an attempt to save lives and spare suffering. She needed to do everything in her power to change the path of history.

She blinked and stared at Voldemort, wondering if she ought not travel back in time to Wool's Orphanage and cast a Killing Curse at a Tom Riddle who had not yet created his first Horcrux. But it was not as simple as that, she knew. First of all, she was not a murderer. And he would be just a boy at that point. Furthermore, he'd always been powerful, and he would probably find some way to stop her even if she tried to kill him before he created the first defense against death. No. This was her best option… changing his course. Shifting his methods. It would be hard work. This mission was not for the faint of heart.

But Hermione Granger was not faint of heart.

"Come with me," Voldemort ordered Hermione, and she sighed as she obeyed him. She bowed her head and followed him off the dance floor, toward a masked couple who were fetching themselves fresh glasses of wine. The wizard had smooth blond hair that looked an awful lot like Lucius Malfoy's, and the witch was elegantly attired.

"Malfoy," called Voldemort. The blond wizard turned around, and Hermione's heart accelerated. Was this Draco Malfoy's grandfather? Lucius' father? She gulped, walking with Voldemort up to the couple. Voldemort immediately gestured to Hermione and said, "I'd like you to meet my new… employee. Miss Hermione Granger. I do realise the name is unfamiliar."

"So it is." The blond wizard raised his glass of wine in greeting. "Miss Granger. I'm Abraxas Malfoy; this is my wife Sylvie. How do you do? Any friend of… of…"

"Lord Voldemort's," said Voldemort stiffly, and Malfoy nodded.

"Of course, sir. Any friend of yours is a friend of ours."

"As I said, Miss Granger is an employee," Voldemort clarified. "I'll be hosting her in my office tomorrow at the manor, if that suits."

"Naturally," said Sylvie Malfoy smoothly. "Miss Granger, your robes are so… did you make zem yourself?"

Hermione felt her cheeks go warm at the French witch's obvious insult. She shook her head and jokes, "Blame Madam Malkin."

"Actually." Voldemort cleared his throat and sniffed, taking a long moment to seem thoughtful. "Miss Granger will be working closely with me. I would like for her to have easy access to my office. I need her near my work life. Her current accommodations are less than satisfactory."

Abraxas and Sylvie Malfoy exchanged a look, and then Abraxas Malfoy nervously stammered,

"Of… of course we could… we could offer Miss Granger a suite."

"Wonderful," Voldemort said lightly. Hermione gasped.  
"Oh, I couldn't possibly -"

"I was not asking, Hermione," Voldemort growled at her. Hermione raised her eyes to him, feeling them burn with fear. This was Lord Voldemort, and he was angry with her. She nodded and whispered instinctively,

"Yes, My Lord."

Abraxas Malfoy looked surprised at that, and Sylvie Malfoy's blue eyes were very wide behind her beautiful mask. She sipped her wine and murmured,

"She can 'ave ze black and white suite on ze second floor, Abraxas. It's no problem at all."

"Your generosity and hospitality will be well remembered," Voldemort promised. "I know who my friends are. My real friends."

"Well. Miss Granger. We look forward to hosting you at Malfoy Manor," said Abraxas Malfoy with a very stiff smile. He took a deep draught of his wine, and Hermione helplessly threw up her hands and mumbled,

"Thanks. I mean, erm… thank you very much. I've got everything in one little bag, so I…" She realised she sounded strange, so she looked up to Voldemort, who swooped in and said quite firmly,

"I don't want people asking after Miss Granger. She is my concern. I trust you'll make that clear to the old crowd if any questions come up, Malfoy."

"Of course, sir," Malfoy said. "Yes."

"Right. Off you go," Voldemort said, and Abraxas took Sylvie's hand and hurried off. Voldemort cleared his throat and turned his face toward Hermione after the Malfoys had walked off. He gave her a hard look and admitted, "No, they don't all listen that well yet."

"They will listen, Master," Hermione told him. "So I should come to Malfoy Manor tomorrow? What time?"

"Nine in the morning," Voldemort instructed her. "Now go back to the Leaky Cauldron. I think you've lingered at this party long enough."

**Author's Note: Hoo boy. So, Hermione's really leaning in on this Lies and Manipulation game. But now she's in deep; she has to live and 'work' (what does **_**that**_ **mean?) at Malfoy Manor with Lord Voldemort. What will he do with her memories? How will he 'make use of' her? And what will it mean for her to play along for the sake of her mission?**

**Thank you so very, very much for reading. I am so very grateful for the feedback.**


	5. Odysseus Siegel

_6 October 1968_

Lord Voldemort paced in his office, sipping from a glass of pumpkin juice. He had taken breakfast alone in here this morning - poached eggs and toast - and Dobby had already cleared the plates. But now he just paced, because he was anxious to know whether the time traveller was going to show up or not.

He'd scarcely slept the night before. He'd stared at the ceiling in his wood-paneled bedroom and had wondered if he was making a grave error in believing the witch. But he'd searched her thoughts, and all he'd found was a sincere, ardent longing to make things right. To be certain, in her lived experience, she had fought against Lord Voldemort, who appeared to have amassed enough power to be the enemy of Albus Dumbledore and company. She had battled against him at Hogwarts, where his grey, mangled corpse had collapsed in mortal death after all of his Horcruxes had been destroyed.

But Hermione Granger, though she'd helped destroy Horcruxes and had bravely spoken Voldemort's name when so many were afraid to do so, had decided after the war that she had made many wrong decisions. She had argued with her husband and her best friends about it, screaming at them that she wished she'd been on Voldemort's side during the war.

She was a Mudblood, Voldemort knew. And she could be an Occlumens, but he did not sense deception from her. He sensed incredible intelligence, and a pure intention. He sensed a forceful power of will. He sensed… potential.

There was knocking on his office door, and Voldemort sniffed as he set down the glass of pumpkin juice on his desk and barked sharply,

"Enter."

His office door opened, and Dobby the House-Elf came tottering in, leading a pretty young witch behind him. Hermione. She held a simple leather handbag and wore a knee-length dress of dark blue wool, and as she followed Dobby into the office, the elf declared,

"Miss Hermione Granger for you, sir."

"Yes. Go." Voldemort shooed the creature away, and Dobby Disapparated with a crack. Hermione stepped further into the office, and Voldemort wandlessly shut the door behind her. She seemed profoundly nervous, so Voldemort decided to have a peek into her head. _Legilimens, _he incanted silently.

She was hoping that he would be merciful after examining her memories. She was wishing that perhaps he might be kind enough to wipe her mind and set her loose in Muggle London after he'd extracted the information he needed to be successful. She was thinking that even if he killed her, it would have all been worth it, because she would have accomplished her mission. She would have come back in time for the right reason.

Voldemort pulled out of her head with a neat slip, sliding from her thoughts like water running down glass. She blinked at him and said softly,

"Good morning, Master."

"Miss Granger. Or, I suppose, it is Madam Granger, isn't it? I misspoke last night when I introduced you to the Malfoys. I do apologise," Voldemort said loosely. Hermione shrugged and shook her head.

"It is of no consequence anymore, My Lord. Ron isn't here. I shall never see him again, so." Her eyes welled heavily then, and he realised she was about to cry. He cleared his throat roughly and asked,

"Have you had breakfast?"

"I have, yes. Thank you." Hermione glanced at his glass of pumpkin juice and frowned a little. He could plainly read her thoughts on the matter, even without pushing into her mind. She was surprised that a figure like Lord Voldemort consumed mortal food and drink. She supposed it must occur; he must eat. He must drink. Still, it was strange for her to imagine him like everyone else. She'd known him as a distant monster.

Voldemort sighed, picked up the glass of pumpkin juice, and sipped carefully. He took his time swallowing the mouthful of juice, then stared into his glass and murmured,

"I would like to know how it is that I became that grey-faced, red-eyed beast without a nose. Tell me."

"Well, Master," Hermione said, shifting on her feet where she stood, "You… erm. You first rose to prominence in the 1970s, and there was a great conflict toward the end of that decade. In 1981, you attempted to kill a boy called Harry Potter, because a prophecy had been delivered that led you to believe his death was necessary for your success."

"Harry Potter." Voldemort narrowed his eyes. "His name floods your mind. He is not the red-haired boy; that's Ronald. He is… the one with the glasses and the scar."

Hermione pinched her lips and nodded. Suddenly her thoughts rushed through her mind. The boy's scar had come from Voldemort attempting to kill him as a baby. When his mother's love had protected him, Harry Potter had managed to rebound Voldemort's Killing Curse, and Voldemort had been destroyed in body. For more than a decade, Voldemort had been without form, and it wasn't until the boy was a teenager that Voldemort had regained a body of his own. Hermione's mind pushed forth an image of Voldemort, ghostly and bald and towering. That was what had become of him, after making all those Horcruxes, after having his Killing Curse rebounded upon him. And when the Horcruxes had been destroyed, Voldemort had died in that hideous, snakelike body, demolished once and for all by Harry Potter himself.

"Why?" Voldemort found himself asking. Hermione looked confused, and she tipped her head a little.

"I'm sorry; why what, My Lord?"

"Why, after all that, do you believe you were on the wrong side?" he sipped his pumpkin juice again, giving Hermione a suspicious glare. She opened her mouth, shut it, and opened it again, saying firmly,

"Albus Dumbledore was the most manipulative human being that's ever lived, I think. He was a liar, and he used people to get his way. And he managed to convince all of us that you were out to destroy wizarding Britain, but if there's one thing I've done quite a lot of, it's historical research. I know that you and Gellert Grindelwald had similar ideas for the wizarding world - putting us in our rightful place."

"You know that, do you?" Voldemort set down his glass and folded his arms across his chest. "And what place is that?"

Hermione scoffed. "I've got Muggles for parents, and the Muggle world changes quickly. I've seen the sort of disgusting things the Muggles do to themselves. I left that world at the age of eleven. I don't believe the magical and Muggle worlds have any business mixing. And, furthermore, I believe magic is far superior to even the most 'advanced' Muggle technology. It's inherently sophisticated where they use brute, inelegant techniques to achieve -"

"So you're a self-loathing Mudblood," Voldemort interrupted. Hermione's cheeks coloured, but she said softly,

"In the war where I fought against you, you utilised Dementors. You utilised werewolves. If you could find a place for creatures like them, surely there's a place for a witch like me. Master."

"Hmm." Voldemort took a step toward her, noticing just how much taller he was than her. It wasn't that she was especially short; it was just that he didn't make a habit of looming over witches. He was a particularly tall wizard, and he suddenly felt quite large, hovering just a few steps away from her. She shied back a little as he said,

"I grew up in a Muggle orphanage. I'm sure you know that story."

"With all due respect, My Lord, I know… quite a lot about your past," said Hermione rather meaningfully. Her mind flashed vividly with the knowledge that he'd murdered his Muggle father, with the idea that his mother had died at Wool's Orphanage. She knew he'd had Gaunt family, about the love potion his mother had given his father. She knew all of it. She knew all of his dirty secrets. How? Dumbledore, Voldemort reckoned. Dumbledore had revealed all of this to her. But then another clear thought flashed - Dumbledore's face, and a vivid word… _loathing._ She hated Dumbledore's memory. She hated what he'd left behind.

"Tell me how Dumbledore died," Voldemort ordered. Hermione nodded.

"You ordered Draco Malfoy to do it," Hermione told him. "He was a boy, a boy my age. Abraxas' grandson."

"Why would I have a child kill Albus Dumbledore?" Voldemort snapped. Hermione sighed.

"I can't pretend to know your motivations, Master," she said. "I suppose because he was at the school. But Severus Snape wound up doing it. Snape is a boy now. I've just seen him in Diagon Alley, just a few days ago…"

Suddenly her face went white, and a terrified thought went through her brain. Was Voldemort going to kill Severus Snape to change what happened to Dumbledore? She had positive thoughts about Snape, he sensed. Snape had been a Death Eater - a double agent working for Dumbledore, but a sworn Death Eater who had murdered Dumbledore. Then a slight thought crept forth, just a little hint. Hermione was shrouding it somehow; was she an Occlumens after all? Voldemort scowled at her and thought _Legilimens._

_Severus Snape was dying. Hermione was watching him die. Voldemort had just killed Snape. Suddenly Hermione was wondering why Voldemort had done this, why he had murdered a man like Severus Snape._

"Why did I kill him?" Voldemort snapped at Hermione. She gulped hard and whispered frantically,

"The Elder Wand. You thought… you thought he was the master of the Elder Wand."

Her mind whooshed with ideas then, swirling thoughts about the Potters' ancestral Invisibility Cloak that had been passed down to Harry Potter, about the Resurrection Stone that lay within the Gaunt family ring, about the Elder Wand that Dumbledore had won from Gellert Grindelwald. Snape had killed Dumbledore; he'd mastered the wand. Voldemort wanted it. So he'd killed Snape. But it hadn't worked that way; it had been more complicated. And, ultimately, the Elder Wand had turned on Voldemort with a Killing Curse.

"Answer me this!" Voldemort snarled, ripping himself roughly from Hermione's mind. She blinked up at him. "Why, when you came back in time to change the course of events, did you not just go straight to Albus Dumbledore, your old ally? Answer me!"  
Hermione's face went very red. She let out a strange little noise, and her eyes glimmered with unshed tears.

"I couldn't…" she whispered. "I had instructions. I had very specific instructions."

"From whom?" demanded Voldemort. Hermione licked her lips.

"_O.S. and friends._ I don't know who they are."

"O.S.," Voldemort repeated. He frowned at Hermione as cold realisation washed over him. "Someone called O.S. gave you a specially-made Time-Turner with the idea that you would come back here and change the course of my existence?"

Hermione nodded, looking quite confused. Voldemort's breath caught in his chest. Odysseus Siegel. A wizard he'd met in Berlin, the closest thing he'd had to a friend, an expert in time travel. Odysseus Siegel had been two hundred years old when Tom Riddle had met him, and the wizard had said something quite cryptic at the time, something Lord Voldemort would never forget.

_When H comes, do listen to her. She'll do well for you._

At the time, in 1962, Tom Riddle had thought that Odysseus Siegel had had too much to drink at the end of a long night of chatting. But now it made sense. Siegel was a traveller, just like Hermione. And he had created a One-Way Time-Turner for Hermione Granger to send her back in time to Lord Voldemort, armed with enough knowledge to shift him from defeat to victory.

"My Lord?" Hermione asked quietly, and Voldemort snapped to attention. He chomped hard on his lip and shook his head.

"Why didn't you go to Dumbledore?" he demanded again. "Why didn't you come back here in time and go straight to Albus Dumbledore to convince him to destroy me?"

"Because… I am not here to destroy you, My Lord," Hermione said, "and because I had very specific instructions. I thought it best to obey the letter I received. I was told to find you at the masquerade ball. Avery Hall on the fifth of October. I was told that that's where I would find you for my mission. I was not told to go to Albus Dumbledore."

He could sense from her that she was not lying. He could feel that she was earnestly telling the truth, that she desperately wanted him to accept her. So he took a step closer to her, and he murmured,

"You find me just as hideous here as you did in that past life, I presume. I am chipped and scarred by Dark magic, as you can plainly see."

"I do not find you hideous, Master." Hermione's cheeks went rosy, and she bowed her head. Voldemort reached for her chin and tipped it up, making her stare at him.

"You are afraid of me."

"I am, a little," she admitted. Voldemort quirked up half his mouth and whispered,

"Don't be afraid, Madam Granger. I'm not going to dispose of you. I am going to keep you. At least for now. I'll be keeping you close. You'll take your meals with me and spend your days here in my office until I give you clearance to be elsewhere. Now. Why don't we go see about that black and white suite Sylvie Malfoy's got set up for you, hmm?"

**Author's Note: She's still tricking him! But it's impressed with her. Now that they've spent a bit of time alone together in his office, perhaps we'll start to see a bit of weird dynamic develop between them? Meh?**

**Thank you so very much for reading and reviewing!**


	6. Alone

Hermione stared at herself in the full-length, lacquered black mirror in the bedroom she'd been given. She scarcely recognised herself. She had left Ron, Harry, Ginny, and her parents behind. Now she was in Malfoy Manor - a place she'd despised in the life she'd departed - in a black and white suite she'd been assigned as an 'employee' of Lord Voldemort. This mission was taking every ounce of her being, Hermione thought.

Lord Voldemort had recognised what she'd meant when she'd said that _O.S. and friends_ had sent her back in time. He knew who _O.S._ was. Hermione wondered whether she would come to find out more about the mysterious person who had crafted her One-Way Time-Turner. Was this an ally of Voldemort's, or an old enemy? Had her secret plan to come back and destroy Voldemort's success been uncovered, or had she been helped by disclosing who had given her the device? She still wasn't certain.

Now she stood before the mirror in her simple blue wool dress, having pulled her hair into one braid over a shoulder, and she wondered whether she was foolish for having put on makeup. Why, she wondered, had she tried to make herself look just a little bit prettier for dinner? She shouldn't care what Lord Voldemort thought of her appearance. After all, he was an ugly old man, and she was here to destroy him.

No, she reminded herself. She was here to ingratiate herself into his good will. She needed him to like her. She needed him to keep her close, as he said he was going to do, so that she could influence him. She thought that perhaps one way of endearing herself to him in a useful manner would be to look pretty, so that he wanted to hear her opinions more freely. After all, didn't most wizards care more about the opinions of pretty witches? It was sad, she knew, but it was true. Hermione had learnt after years working at the Ministry of Magic that if she wanted to be taken seriously by her male coworkers, she needed to at least put in ten minutes' worth of effort in the morning.

So now she walked out of her black and white suite, into the corridor, and felt like she looked halfway decent. She tried not to remember the time she'd come here and had been tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange, the way the witch had carved the word _Mudblood_ into Hermione's flesh. She tried not to think of Luna being held prisoner in the dungeon here. She tried not to think of the Death Eater meetings that had taken place here, when Lord Voldemort had been a grey-faced monster.

She descended a flight of winding stairs to the first floor and walked past a portrait of a snooty-looking elderly witch who scoffed and said primly,

"What is _she_ doing here?"

"I'm a welcomed guest, thanks very much," Hermione snapped at the portrait. She'd taken more than enough snark from Walburga Black's portrait in her own time. She didn't need another painting smarting off to her. She stalked past the portrait and rounded a corner, thinking that she was meant to meet Voldemort back at his office and would head straight there. But as she turned the corner, a luxuriously dressed witch appeared - Sylvie Malfoy.

"Good evening," said Sylvie, tipping her face up. She wore a flowing black silk skirt and a bodice of shimmering black and silver with fur trim around the collar and wrists. Her hair had been styled in an elegant updo, and she wore shining red lipstick. She smirked at Hermione, flicking her eyes up and down. She appeared to be taking in Hermione's simple wool dress, her basic makeup style, and her single braid. She sniffed after making her appraisal and asked, "Off to dinner, Miss Granger?"

"It's _Madam_ Granger, actually," Hermione corrected her, wondering immediately if she ought to have done so. Indeed, Sylvie's blue eyes flashed in wonder. So Hermione was married. Sylvie seemed to find that very interesting. She brushed her long fingers together and murmured,

"Madam Granger. My mistake. Are your rooms satisfactory?"

"I'm quite comfortable. Thank you again for hosting me."

"Anything for Lord Voldemort." Sylvie pronounced the name with a distinct French accent, the syllables rolling off her tongue like mist. She curled up her lips, her blue eyes narrowing, as she whispered, "We are his dearest friends, Abraxas and I. We pride ourselves in that fact."

"I'm sure The Dark Lord is very grateful for your loyalty," Hermione said, quite meaningfully. Sylvie's eyes gleamed again at Hermione's choice language. Hermione took a steadying breath and added, "I am a devoted servant of his. Very devoted. That's why I'm here. I trust you understand why there can't be… why he told you that there are to be no questions asked."

"You are indeed a witch of great mystery," Sylvie Malfoy admitted. She tapped her thumb with her middle finger as though she were a bit anxious, and she said, "I trust in Lord Voldemort. If he believes you are to be kept close, surely he has his reasons. We wish only for his advancement. We will do our part. We will make you comfortable here, however we can. Do let me know if there is anything you need."

"_Merci beaucoup, Madame _Malfoy." Hermione bowed her head a little, and Sylvie let out a little laugh. She nodded.

"I won't keep you. Go. Enjoy your meal." Sylvie strode past Hermione, down the corridor and around the corner. Hermione whirled around, intending on heading for Voldemort's office. But then her mouth fell open, because he was striding towards her, coming down the corridor in neatly tailored black brocade robes.

Hermione froze. He looked so… so… _intimidating. _He was not at all handsome. Indeed, he was almost hideous, with his scarred mouth, his chipped chin, his shattered cheekbone, and his drooping eyelid. His pale face was visibly wrinkled, and his hair seemed somehow even more grey and sparse than it had this morning. He was not a handsome man. What he was was a tall, looming figure walking with all the confidence in the world. He moved smoothly in Hermione's direction, his long legs causing his outer robe to swish about him. He neared her, and Hermione's heart accelerated. She needed to stop thinking about being afraid, she thought. She tried to think things that would convince him of her mission's veracity. She needed to think of something that would convince him she was telling him the truth when she spoke.

_I wish he would __think_ _I was pretty, _Hermione thought frantically, pushing forward the idea. _He's terrifying, but I adore him. I just want him to like me. I only want him not to hate me. If I achieve nothing else in all the world but to help him succeed, my life will have been worth a million Galleons…_

"Madam Granger," said Voldemort, approaching her. He cleared his throat and said, "We shall be dining in the violet parlour. This way."

Hermione felt surprise wash over her. The violet parlour? What was that? She gulped and followed Voldemort as he turned around his shoulder and walked in the opposite direction. She struggled mightily to keep up with his long strides, trotting in her flat-heeled shoes as she breathlessly put new thoughts into her head. She started thinking that she was so pleased to be dining with him, that she was so honoured to be spending time with her master. Distantly, very distantly, she hoped that he would perceive her enthusiasm.

Voldemort jerked to his left when they reached an open door, and Hermione followed him into a plum-coloured room with bright white moulding and an elegant dark wood table in the centre. There was a white marble fireplace and two armchairs, as well as a grand piano in the same dark wood as the table. Clearly, this was a room intended for playing Gobstones or Wizard's Chess, but tonight it would play host to a dinner. Two place settings had been put upon the table, complete with fine bone china, crystal, and silver cutlery. Hermione swallowed hard, thinking this felt _awfully_ intimate given that she'd destroyed the Horcruxes of this man.

_No, _she thought desperately, wanting her mission to be a success. She hadn't left Ron behind for nothing. Fred hadn't died for nothing. Neville's parents hadn't been tortured for nothing. She pushed forward the strongest idea she could muster. _This is the most amazing opportunity I've ever __had_ _\- to dine alone with the Dark Lord himself! Even if he kills me, I'll die happy._

"I'm not going to kill you. I've told you, I'm keeping you close for now." Voldemort had plainly been scanning her mind, so Hermione clipped at her own thoughts, knowing she needed to mind them neatly. She smiled weakly at him and murmured,

"How very grateful I am, My Lord, to be able to give you information and be made comfortable in lodging here at Malfoy Manor. It is… it feels too much."

"You said yourself that I made use of werewolves and other Beings in your time," Voldemort sniffed. "Quite clearly, there is use for a time-travelling, Muggle-born witch of immense intelligence and loyalty… one who happens to possess invaluable knowledge. So I am keeping you. Do sit."

He waved his hand, and one of the chairs scraped backward. Hermione smiled again and sat in the chair, watching as Voldemort pulled his hand forward to drag the chair closer to the table. She was amazed by the ease with which he performed wandless magic. She was astounded by him, suddenly. She'd always known, even in her previous life, that Lord Voldemort was one of the most powerful wizards who had ever lived. Even Albus Dumbledore had admitted that much. But he made the most complex magic seem effortless, and she sat staring at him in wonder. He smirked at her, obviously inside her head and enjoying himself there. He snapped his fingers, and the flames on the candelabra in the centre of the table extinguished themselves at once. Smoke rose from the candles as though an invisible breath had blown them all out. Hermione choked out a little noise of astonishment, and then she looked on in wonder as Voldemort sat in his own chair, folded his hands on the table, stared very intently at the candelabra, and sighed. Suddenly all the candles burst into flame again, and Hermione's mouth fell open.

"Parlour tricks. Quite literally." Voldemort curled up half his mouth, but Hermione mumbled,

"Master, you are… I confess that we were enemies, so when I saw your magic at its fullest, I was fighting against it. Still, your power always amazed me. But now I find myself in awe."

"You are hardly a magical weakling yourself." Voldemort tipped his head and narrowed his eyes. "Undetectable Extension Charms and Protean Charms whilst still at Hogwarts? Conjuring better than anybody else. Apparition under great duress. Protective magic that kept out even the most skilled trackers. A fully corporeal Patronus Charm. Inventing a jinx for traitors… and that's to say nothing of your book smarts. Don't sell yourself short just because I can light candles and move chairs."

"Without a wand," Hermione clarified. Voldemort blinked slowly and shrugged. He actually laughed a little then, and Hermione found herself smiling a little. Why was she smiling? She knew why, suddenly. It was because it felt like ages since someone had spelt out all of her accomplishments and abilities. Ron always told her she was brilliant, but sometimes it had come out like an insult, as though he had been embittered about Hermione's intellect. Harry and Ginny never seemed to compliment Hermione anymore… or they hadn't, before she'd left. When she'd told them about her interview in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Harry had reminded Hermione of how easily he'd become an Auror straight out of school, and Ginny had seemed underwhelmed. Hermione frowned now, realising that her parents hadn't understood just how capable a witch she'd been. They couldn't understand. They were Muggles.

"Your mind is elsewhere," Voldemort said smoothly. Hermione jolted to attention and panted a little, panicking. Had she given herself away? She thought rather desperately,

_Does he __think_ _I'm as intelligent as he says, or is he flattering me for some other purpose? Is he grooming me for something? Preparing me to die?_

"For the last time… I am keeping you close for the time being," Voldemort snapped. "Ah. Food's here. Thank goodness."

Hermione looked down to see that their plates had magically filled with food, undoubtedly cooked by Dobby. Hermione picked up her fork and knife and cut into the lemon chicken on her plate. She took a bite and chewed quietly, trying to put into her head a scene in which she and Ron had been arguing. This had been a real argument; she was remembering a time when she and Ron had been fighting because he and Harry had stayed out drinking until almost three in the morning. Ginny had been eight months pregnant, and Hermione didn't think it was appropriate or fair for the boys to be out so late and come home to their wives piss drunk.

"They gave you trouble," Voldemort guessed. "The boy, Harry Potter, and your husband, Ronald."

Hermione raised her eyes to him. She studied his face, letting her eyes linger on the raised white scar that ran vertically through his lips. She flicked her gaze back up to his dark eyes and sighed.

"We were best friends, the three of us," she explained, "but just because you're best friends with someone doesn't mean you ought to marry them. I wish I'd known that. I… erm… I think I married the wrong person."

"The pregnant witch you were shouting about… Ginny." Voldemort sniffed. "The same girl from the diary incident in your second year?"

"Yes." Hermione huffed out a deep breath. "Ron's sister. Harry's wife. We were all sort of… interconnected."

"Everyone here is rather interconnected, too," Voldemort said, spearing a roast potato. "Inbred, some would say."

Hermione let out a biting laugh at that and sipped from the white wine that had filled itself. She shook her head and whispered, "Inbred."

"Well, they are." Voldemort quirked up half his mouth. "I went to a few weddings this summer, and I don't think any of them were more removed than second cousins. It is, admittedly, a bit difficult to harp on about blood purity when the pure blood is a bit… well…"

"Murky?" Hermione tried. "Opaque? Fused?"

He was chuckling now, and he shook his head as he reminded her, "It's better than running off and cavorting with Muggles."

"You're right, of course, Master," Hermione said quite seriously. She tried to tell herself that she needed to be convincing in this mission. She thrust forth an image of her parents staring blankly into their colour television set as Hermione paced behind their divan. It was the summer holidays, and Hermione no longer felt like she belonged in the Muggle world. She preferred magic.

"You're a witch," he told her. "People can say what they like about your origins, but I've seen what you're capable of. You have real power. You don't ever belong in the Muggle world again. Just like I never belonged in the Muggle world after leaving that damned orphanage."

"May I ask you something, Master?" Hermione gulped. She let out a shaky breath and licked her lips. "When Dumbledore told you that you were a wizard, did it… did it sort of explain everything? Did you feel like… as though you finally had an explanation for why you hadn't fit in with the Muggles?"

"Is that how you felt?" he asked, and Hermione smiled a little as she admitted,

"My mother says that I used to make dolls dance, and she thought she was going mad. Once, when I was seven, I was climbing the tree in our back garden and I fell. I somehow stopped myself from hitting the ground, so I didn't get hurt. My dentist parents thought it was a miracle."

"It was magic," Voldemort said plainly, "because you are a witch."

"You didn't want me in my time," Hermione said softly. She blinked. She pulled back the sleeve of the arm that had been wounded by Bellatrix Lestrange, and she revealed the scar there. _Mudblood. _In her mind, she was screaming as Bellatrix carved the word into her skin with an awful spell. Voldemort squared his jaw and said tightly,

"Well, if I had known Bellatrix Black was going to… I…"

He blinked a few times and then said in a rush,

"You must understand that, in order for me to gain traction and power among the elites of the wizarding world, I must commit entirely to the notion of blood purity. Grindelwald tried a more inclusive approach; he even tried including Beasts and Beings to promote the entirety of the magical world above the Muggle world. It failed him in the end. I am attempting a different approach, a Pureblood-centric approach, because I…"

He trailed off. Hermione flicked her eyes down to her scar, to the word _Mudblood _on her arm. She slowly pulled down her sleeve and found herself wondering if the reason why Lord Voldemort focused so much on blood purity was because he'd had a Muggle father. Perhaps, she thought, Grindelwald would have been victorious in elevating the wizarding world if he'd only tweaked a few things, if he hadn't tried to be so global, if he'd -

"That's quite enough." Voldemort's voice was low and quiet then, and Hermione stared right at him. His face was hard and angry. He picked up his fork and knife and began sawing into his chicken. He and Hermione ate the rest of their meal in tense silence. She tried to focus her thoughts on things that would not upset him. She thought about missing Ron, but she also thought about arguments she'd had with him. She remembered the time Ron had insisted that they spend the whole of Christmas Day at the Burrow, and only see Hermione's parents on Christmas Eve. It had been a grand fight, and ultimately they'd seen both families, but the sniping had been bitter. Hermione thought of when Ginny had been heavily pregnant and Hermione had been attempting to conceive. She thought of how badly that had hurt, of how much it had wounded her to see Ginny rubbing her belly protectively whilst she and Ron failed month after month. She thought of the drudgery at the Ministry of Magic, and she implanted the idea that she'd pined for the Dark Lord to be in charge instead of the Ministry officials that had taken charge after the war.

"Your ice cream is melting," she heard Lord Voldemort say, and Hermione jolted to rights. She stared down to see a little glass cup of peppermint ice cream sitting before her, and she picked up her spoon. She delved the spoon into the ice cream, and then Voldemort asked her,

"Why did you stay with him, if he made you so profoundly unhappy?"

Hermione realised that Voldemort was unrelentingly inside of her mind, so she shut her eyes and pushed forward a single word. _Love._

"Love," Voldemort repeated aloud, sounding amused. "He was your friend, you said. You weren't in love with him."

"I was," Hermione insisted defiantly, but Voldemort narrowed his eyes and shook his head.

"I am a very gifted Legilimens, Hermione Granger. I can see quite plainly how you felt about that boy. Friendship? Yes. Love? Perhaps the sort of love that family members feel for one another, if you've got the right sort of family. The sort of love that comrades feel after fighting a war together, to be certain. But you were never deeply in love with him. Why marry him in the first place, and then why stay with him when he displeased you so much?"

She wondered why he cared. She wondered why he was pressing her on such a personal issue. And then she knew why he was asking her about this. He wanted to humiliate her, to make her feel small. This was a power move. This was him asserting dominance by prying into the most private part of her existence and parsing it out, demanding answers and explanations where he hadn't earned them. Hermione tipped her chin up and said,

"I did not have the courage to leave him, My Lord."

"A Gryffindor lacking in courage?" Voldemort raised his eyebrows. "Perhaps you ought to have been a Ravenclaw, after all."

She pursed her lips. "I had no one else. I had my parents, who were Muggles and didn't understand the world in which I lived and worked. I had Harry, Ron, and Ginny. To a lesser extent, I had friends like Neville and Luna. But if I left my husband, I would have been very alone, and that frightened me. I was a coward, and so I stayed with him for the sake of our friendship and because I was very afraid of being alone."

"Well." Voldemort threw his hands up and smirked. "You're not alone here. You have your lord and master."

Hermione swallowed past the knot in her throat and nodded. "For that, sir, I am very grateful."

"Once you've finished your dessert, you may go up to your rooms and go to bed," he said stiffly. "There is a library if you'd like books to read to occupy your time."

"Thank you," Hermione said. "What shall I do tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," Voldemort said, "you begin work."

"Work," Hermione repeated. She felt confused, so she asked him, "What exactly does my work consist of, Master?"

"Tomorrow we go back to the day you got your Hogwarts letter," Voldemort said, "and we move forward from there. I want to know absolutely everything. You'll leave no stone unturned."

"And when I've given you all the information I've got," Hermione said, quite cautiously, "what will become of me, My Lord?"

"That will depend," Voldemort replied, scooping some peppermint ice cream into his mouth. "It will depend on what use I see for you moving forward. I certainly hope I can find a place for you. It would be a shame to dispose of such an intelligent creature as you."

Hermione blinked. _Intelligent. _Not _pretty._ She'd put on makeup to try and impress him, but he hadn't said that the reason it would be shameful to kill her was because she was a good-looking little thing he wanted for his own use. No. He wanted to keep her about because she was intelligent.

"Such potential I sense in you," Voldemort said softly, dragging his spoon over his ice cream. "You've already accomplished so much, but of course it was all in the wrong direction. If your magical powers were channeled properly, Hermione Granger, I daresay you could be quite the force to be reckoned with. You could be my most powerful weapon. Yes. I would like to be able to keep you."

"I want to please you," Hermione heard herself say, before she thought of the words. Voldemort raised his gaze, bringing another spoonful of ice cream into his mouth. He just stared for a moment. Hermione decided to lean in. She nodded. "I want to tell you everything, so that you can win. I want to fight for you. I want to… please, Master. Let me be yours this time. You didn't want me the last time I lived all this, but… I beg of you…"

"Hmm." Voldemort set down his spoon and gave Hermione a very long look. She flooded her mind with thoughts of him, with a distant but thrumming sense of longing. She felt a gurgling sense of need in the back of her mind, unbidden and strange, and she brought it up and let it run loose. His face tightened a little, and he whispered,

"What an interesting witch I find you to be. Perhaps he was right."

_He_. Who was _he_, Hermione wondered? She swigged at her white wine and asked softly,

"May I be excused, Master? I'd like to go get a few books from the library."

"Yes. Be in my office tomorrow morning at nine," Voldemort said, flicking his eyes up and down her form. Hermione rose from her chair, and Voldemort stood with her. He loomed over her as she stared up at him, and then he bowed his head and said, far less harshly than Hermione had expected, "Good evening, Madam Granger."

"Good evening, My Lord," Hermione replied, and she turned to go.

**Author's Note: Whew! Already got just a hint of tension between these two! But still so much deception! Raise your hand, though, if you ****think** **all of this is bringing out some unresolved issues Hermione has with the life she left behind, and if maybe some of her Darker potential may be unleashed here? As always, thank you so ****very** **much for reading and reviewing.**


	7. Almost Handsome

"Sir, was breakfast to your satisfaction this morning?" Abraxas Malfoy shut the door of Voldemort's office. Voldemort raised his eyebrows and folded his hands on his desk.

"You didn't come to ask me about my eggs and toast, Malfoy."

Abraxas curled up his lips tightly and admitted, "I came to ask about the girl. About… about our mysterious guest."

"I told you that I didn't want any questions about her," Voldemort snapped, but Abraxas licked his lips and said quite cautiously,

"I do hope you find Malfoy Manor a comfortable and hospitable place to stay. Both of you. I hope we make you feel very much at home here. It is an honour to host you, truly."

Voldemort chomped his lip, feeling his scar tissue beneath his tooth. He cleared his throat as he realised Malfoy was making a threat. He was lording his manor over Voldemort, who had been Tom Riddle not so very long ago. It would be rather easy for Abraxas Malfoy to simply evict the man most of the wizarding world still knew as an aspirational Half-Blood. It would be entirely too simple for Abraxas to say he wanted nothing to do with Voldemort's scheming, and in doing so, he'd succeed in shutting doors all over Pureblood society for Voldemort. It was critical that Voldemort maintain Malfoy's good graces, at least for now. He sighed.

"She is a Mudblood," he offered up by way of information, "and she went undetected by the Ministry, so she did not… erm… she has no formal education."

"A Mudblood." Abraxas crinkled his lip in disgust. He was hosting a Muggle-born in his home? He looked like he was going to vomit. He made a wretched little noise and then huffed, "Well, where has she learnt magic, then? Did she steal a wand?"

"I can't reveal the particulars of her life story, Malfoy," Voldemort said sharply. "It's all… classified. Suffice it to say that she possesses a particular skill set I find of special use. Otherwise, obviously, I would not be keeping her so near to me."

"I see." Malfoy narrowed his eyes, obviously confused. What skill set could a Mudblood without a Hogwarts education have that the powerful Lord Voldemort did not? She must be very special, Malfoy was thinking. She must be unique in a way he couldn't fathom. To be undetected by the Ministry at birth, and then lack proper training, yet be powerful enough that Lord Voldemort wanted to possess her as a sort of pet? There was something different about her, something that set her apart from even Voldemort's old school friends. She was… one of a kind.

"She is certainly a rare good," Voldemort said quietly to Malfoy. "A valuable artefact, if you will."

He quirked up a little sarcastic smile then as he referenced his old days working at Borgin and Burkes. He drummed his fingers on his desk and told Malfoy,

"I need her here at Malfoy Manor. It isn't safe for her to be out and about right now."

"I understand, sir," Malfoy nodded. "Erm… does that mean you won't be coming to the dinner party tonight? For Sylvie's birthday? We're having just about twenty people over, you'll recall. Will you be eating separately with her in a parlour, or…?"

"Oh. The damned birthday dinner." Voldemort pinched his lips. He scowled deeply and tried to think of what the best course of action was. He didn't exactly want to make some grand introduction of Hermione to the crowd of Pureblood enthusiasts who would be coming to celebrate Sylvie Malfoy's birthday. Nor did he want to skip the party; he needed the opportunity to make conversation about his goals and mission.

His goals and mission… which were staunchly supported by Hermione Granger.

"I'll… I'll introduce her," Voldemort said cautiously. He flicked his eyes up to Malfoy and shrugged. "You've got a French wife. I'm a Half-Blood; everyone knew where I spent my holidays in school. They won't recognise her name, and nobody will know her, but they'll know better than to pry. And if they do ask, I'll simply say that she's an employee working to further my ambitions. She'll keep quiet."

"I'll have Dobby set a place for her, then, sir," Malfoy nodded. He shifted on his feet and asked again, "So, was your breakfast to your liking?"

"The eggs were perfectly cooked. Thanks for asking." Voldemort rolled his eyes. "You are rather an insufferable busybody, Malfoy."

"I'll leave you to it, then, sir." Malfoy smirked and turned to go. When he opened the door of Voldemort's office, there was a mental pulse - a second mind - and Malfoy said in surprise, "Oh! Good morning, Madam Granger."

"Morning, Mr Malfoy," said Hermione's voice from out in the corridor. "Am I interrupting?"

"No. I was just leaving. Good day." Malfoy walked past Hermione, and she nodded as she came stepping into Voldemort's office. His breath caught just a little as she shut the door and moved into the space. She looked awfully pretty today. He couldn't help but think so. She was a time traveller, and she was someone else's wife, but she looked very pretty in a dark red knee-length dress with a thick black belt around her narrow waist. She had on flat-heeled, knee-high boots, and she'd pulled her bushy hair into a low ponytail with a few stray curls fallen loose around her face.

_Oh, help,_ he perceived from her mind, a desperate whirl of frantic thought. _He's studying me. He's looking at my clothes. What if he thinks I'm frumpy or ugly or -_

Voldemort ripped himself out of her head and coughed into his fist. He gestured to the chair opposite him, across his desk, and said quietly,

"Sit down."

"Good morning, My Lord," Hermione murmured as she sat. Voldemort chewed his lip and stared at her face for a long while. She had freckles, he saw now. Dainty, faint little freckles dusted across her skin. But she had flaws, too. Her face was so thin it was almost bony, and her hair was wild. Somehow, he didn't mind. He'd always found witches attractive, but he'd never really bothered with them. In school, he'd taken advantage of how handsome they'd found him by taking girls to dances and snogging them afterwards. In the years when he'd worked at Borgin and Burkes, he'd had a few short dalliances with young witches. But once he went to the Continent, he'd focused entirely on his studies. Even the seductive Veela and the most beautiful Dark witch in Spain could not tempt him, for he was so determined to gain knowledge and skill that his corporeal desires were non-existent.

But here he sat, staring at a time-traveller, the wife of a red-haired slob from the future, a witch who had destroyed his Horcruxes and watched him die, and he found her very pretty. He gulped hard and said to her,

"Take me back to the day you got your Hogwarts letter. _Legilimens._"

He crashed into her mind, and he was immediately met with a scene that seemed intimate and warm. Minerva McGonagall - he recognised her at once - was calmly explaining to Hermione's bemused parents that there was a special school for children just like Hermione, children who could perform feats like Hermione could. At Hogwarts, children learnt how to channel and control their magic, McGonagall was saying. They learnt the history of magic, along with practical magical skills like Transfiguration, Charms, and Potions. Little Hermione, an eager-faced child, was enthusiastically raising her hand and blurting out questions. _Will I come to live at the school, Professor? Will I make friends there who are people like me? Is there an entire society where people do magic every day? Where are the books I need to learn more about all of this?_

Voldemort laughed uproariously, pulling out of Hermione's head. She frowned a little, but he whispered,

"Oh, you really are… is that really how it happened?"

"I think I must have asked her three hundred questions whilst my parents just sat there and stared at the letter." Hermione grinned broadly. She shrugged, her eyes watering a little. "I finally had an answer… why I could do the things I could do. I was being told that an entire world existed for people like me. I was about to leave behind everything I knew, and I was so… I was so…"

"Excited," Voldemort finished for her. Hermione nodded. He licked his bottom lip and asked,

"When did you learn about me?"

Hermione's grin faltered. She folded her hands in her lap and answered a bit anxiously,

"I was reading every book I could before school began. I wanted to be so prepared; I wanted to know everything I could possibly know before ever stepping foot on the Hogwarts Express. I was probably the only Muggle-born who went in knowing the full story. Even Harry didn't know the full story. Anyway. I read about how Lord Voldemort had returned from the Continent in the late 1960s and had begun to amass followers. Slowly, but surely, he started a movement. By the early 1970s, he'd made real enemies of Albus Dumbledore and the Ministry of Magic. A full-scale war began, with heavy casualties on both sides."

Voldemort's blood went a little cold. He swallowed hard and shook his head, muttering,

"This war went on for years?"

"It intensified in the late 1970s, with real battles and full-scale conflict occurring," Hermione told him. "By 1981, the war was at its height. A prophecy was made declaring that a baby born to those who had thrice defied Lord Voldemort, a specific baby, needed to die. And so Lord Voldemort went to the home of Lily and James Potter to kill that baby."

"Harry Potter," nodded Voldemort. Hermione sighed. Her mind was strangely still and quiet, devoid of the turbulent fretting she'd been doing earlier. Now she said softly,

"Harry's mother died, but her sacrificial love imparted protection upon the boy, Harry. When Lord Voldemort tried to kill Harry Potter, the curse rebounded and decimated him. That's… I'm adding detail. I learnt more detail later."

"That's all right," Voldemort said quite smoothly. He dragged his fingertips over his desk. "What happened after that?"

"After that, people assumed The Dark Lord was gone for good," Hermione said. Her face twisted. "They got complacent. When you came back, your body was different, but you were not. You were still… your Death Eaters had abandoned you, save for a few who had been imprisoned. Most rejoined your side out of fear, but the Second Wizarding War was lost because you were fighting with a crippled army. And your enemy was too strong."

"My enemy. You mean _you_," Voldemort snarled.

"I was brainwashed by Albus Dumbledore!" Hermione declared. She threw her hands up. "He used Harry Potter! He let you _kill_ Harry, a boy, for the sake of the cause, and he knew it was going to happen! He wasn't the glorious gleaming wizard everyone declared him to be! And after he died, secrets came out. Dark secrets. He'd been awfully, terribly close with Gellert Grindelwald. He'd been involved in the death of his sister. He'd manipulated people through the decades of his life, and I was one of those people."

She was crying a little now, swiping at her eyes. She needed a respite from all of this, he knew. He cleared his throat and rose from his desk, walking over to his drinks cart. He searched around the bottles until he found a jug of fizzy cucumber mint water. He filled two glasses with the stuff and corked the jug, carrying the drink over to Hermione. She gratefully accepted it and stared at Voldemort with her teeth dragging over her lip. He peered carefully into her mind and was socked with a strong, vivid thought.

_Albus Dumbledore was no better than anyone he ever fought. He acted like a saviour, like he was better than everyone else. But the truth is that he lied. He was just a player at a game of chess. He used people like props, like tools, to achieve his goals. And those goals were not so pure as he led us to believe._

"You have been wounded," Voldemort said, slipping out of her mind, "by the people who professed to care about you. Albus Dumbledore. Your husband, your friends."

"I…" Hermione opened her mouth and then sipped her drink. She finally stared into the clear liquid and said softly, "I left behind that world knowing I would never see any of those people again. I came here to change what happened. I believe that speaks to the level of dissatisfaction I felt. But none of this is about me, My Lord. It's about your success."

"Is that so?" Voldemort set down his full glass of cucumber mint fizz and cleared his throat. "There's a birthday dinner for Sylvie Malfoy tonight."

"Oh. I shall stay out of the way, My Lord," Hermione promised. "I'm sure Dobby can have food sent to my rooms."

"You'll be accompanying me," he said slickly, "as my employee. If anyone asks, you're a Muggle-born of whom the Ministry never caught wind. Therefore, you never received a Hogwarts education. If they keep pressing, tell them you're not permitted to speak any more on the matter. You're a highly valuable weapon in my arsenal. You're a… an ally, a friend of the movement working to promote my goals and my mission."

Hermione's mouth fell open. She nodded and looked alarmed. "Yes, My Lord."

"Do you need to borrow Sylvie's clothes?" Voldemort asked tightly. Hermione's eyes went round, and she shook her head.

"I've got… erm… I've got cocktail attire, Master."

"Right. Well. Just don't let anyone dig too deeply. The point is that you're a Muggle-born who's slipped past detection. You're an enigma. Stay shrouded in mystery. I'd rather them wonder than know too much. Don't get drunk; I don't want you blurting anything out."

"I won't get drunk, My Lord," Hermione promised.

"Good," He nodded. "I'll pick you up outside your rooms at seven to walk you downstairs."

Hermione blinked. Suddenly he felt a surge of thoughts push forth in her mind.

_He's going to walk me down from my rooms. He's going to walk me into a dinner party. I am the luckiest witch in the entire world. The Dark Lord himself is going to -_

"You are a liability," he snapped, "and I do not trust you to stay alone whilst I fraternise with my friends."

Hermione's face darkened. "Yes, Master."

"Why don't you go get a book off the shelf and read for a while?" He reached for his copy of the _Daily Prophet. _"I'd like you to stay close."

* * *

Voldemort stood outside the door of Hermione's black and white suite and glanced down at himself. Ordinarily, he didn't give a damn about his appearance. To be certain, he pined for the days of yore when he'd been the most handsome boy to ever roam the halls of Hogwarts. But he was in his forties now, and the creation of his Horcruxes had done in his good looks. He was chipped and scarred, pale and grey-haired. His vision was blurry enough these days that he wondered whether he'd have to start wearing glasses soon. He glanced down at the black velvet dress robes he'd put on and hoped he at least looked presentable. If he couldn't be handsome, he could at least be presentable. He wanted these people to admire him, and if he looked ridiculous, they would just think he was some scruffy Half-Blood pretender.

He sighed and walked up to Hermione's door, knocking sharply upon it. He stood back, pulling at the hem of his velvet outer robe to straighten it. He ran a hand over the hair he'd smoothed with Sleekeazy's and wet his bottom lip as he waited for her door to open. When it did, his lips parted in surprise.

She'd appeared to him so far in simple wool and cotton daywear. But now she stood before him in a dark grey dress of floor-length chiffon, with a thin crystal belt and crystal accents at the shoulders of the long sleeves. She'd obviously worked hard on her wild hair; it was coiffed into a stylish updo with perfect ringlets falling down. She had on coral lipstick and loads of mascara, and as she stared back at Voldemort, he felt a strange tingle from her mind.

_Almost handsome_, she was thinking. His breath hitched. He wasn't sure whether that was a compliment or an insult. Almost handsome? He cleared his throat roughly and said,

"Let's go."

Hermione shut her door and stepped out into the corridor, walking beside Voldemort. She flashed him a weak little smile as they approached the stairs, and it was obvious that she wasn't sure who ought to walk first down the narrow stairwell. He stepped aside to make way for her, and she pattered down the stone steps in her high heels. He gulped as he followed her, watching the soft material of her dress swish around her as she emerged out into the corridor below. He walked with her around a corner and past the portrait of the snobbish old Malfoy witch who always made comments at passers-by.

"She actually looks _lovely_ tonight," the witch crooned, and Hermione rolled her eyes as they passed. For some strange reason, Voldemort's cheeks felt a bit warm as they neared the dining room. Suddenly he wondered whether Nott or Crabbe or Avery was going to try and make a move on Hermione, and he decided he would shut down any attempt at that. She was his employee, after all. He couldn't allow for that.

"Oh! Sir! Good evening." As Voldemort and Hermione walked into the dining room, Abraxas and Sylvie Malfoy rushed over. Sylvie reached for Voldemort's hand and immediately gushed,

"Your gift was so generous, but we had insisted _no gifts._"

"Yes, well. I didn't listen. Anyway, you've been more than generous," Voldemort pointed out. He'd had Dobby deliver a pair of Australian opal earrings to Sylvie Malfoy earlier in the day, and they gleamed in her ears now. Hermione looked a little confused, but then Sylvie gestured to her ears and cooed,

"Isn't he so thoughtful?"

"Oh! They're lovely!" Hermione grinned, and he could sense that she was wondering where he'd gotten the money for them. What she didn't know was that he'd simply Confounded a Muggle jeweller into handing them over a few days earlier. He'd stolen the earrings, as simply as that, and now they were Sylvie's.

"Do come talk to Lestrange and Avery; they're dying to chat Quidditch," Abraxas said, guiding Voldemort away. He glanced over his shoulder to where Hermione had been left alone with Sylvie. The French witch appeared to be admiring the way Hermione had styled her hair, and Hermione seemed to be giving some sort of explanation.

"So the dunderhead took a Bludger straight to the skull. Knocked him out of the match," Raddox Lestrange was exclaiming to Heston Avery. "The other Seeker had no competition; the match ended two minutes later."

"Lestrange. Avery. So good to see you both," Voldemort said warmly. "Have the two of you been up to anything besides attending Quidditch matches?"

"Just got a big promotion," Avery grinned, taking a swig of firewhisky. "Course, it helps when your father's the department head."

"Ah, yes. Good old nepotism," scoffed Lestrange. "Heston, I've been telling you for years to try and strike it out on your own."

"You could make a name for _yourself,_ Avery, working within my organisation," Voldemort said. Avery curved up his lips and nodded.

"So I've heard. As it happens, sir, I've heard loads of good things since you've come back from the Continent. Interesting things."

"Heard you learnt all sorts of intriguing magic," Lestrange reckoned, and Voldemort cocked up an eyebrow.

"That's information I share with only my closest compatriots… among whom, of course, I should like to count the both of you. Let's meet, the three of us, and discuss this matter in more detail. When can you come to my office?"

"Erm… well. Next Monday after work, I'm free," Lestrange offered, and Avery shrugged.

"Works for me."

"Monday it is," Voldemort purred. "I look forward to it."

He chatted with the Notts and with Cygnus and Druella Black for a while, and then it was time to eat. Hermione looked wide-eyed and helpless, and when he pulled out her seat at the table, Bovary Crabbe said,

"We were just getting to know your… employee, sir. Madam Granger. You simply must tell us more."

"I'm afraid that whatever she told you is likely the extent of what I can reveal, Mr Crabbe," Voldemort said tightly. The meal was a bit stilted and awkward then, as nobody seemed to want anything to do with Hermione after Voldemort revealed she was some sort of dirty secret. More than once, Voldemort heard someone hiss the word _Mudblood_ at the table during conversation, and he scanned thoughts.

_Wonder what the blazes he's doing with a Mudblood whore…_

_She must have some special ability he's hiding._

_Clearly she's some sort of weapon. She's strategic. We shouldn't ask._

Voldemort cleared his throat and did not sing along as everyone cheerfully celebrated Sylvie Malfoy's birthday. Abraxas made a very sappy toast about having the best wife in the entire world, the most beautiful wife who had ever crossed the English Channel, and everyone made little noises of happiness as Sylvie and Abraxas pecked on the lips right there in front of everybody. Then Dobby turned on the record player, and people ate cake and chatted, and the dining room began to clear out.

Voldemort considered the party a success, for he'd set up a meeting with Avery and Lestrange and had made exceedingly pleasant conversation with the Notts and with Cygnus and Druella Black, all close allies. He had been able to seize this opportunity to network some more. And it seemed, at least according to the thoughts people were having, that Hermione's presence only added to his mysterious and fear-inducing persona. She was some sort of enigmatic ammunition, they all thought. Well, good. Let them think that.

"Let's go," he instructed her, not for the first time tonight. He stood from the table, and Hermione rose with him. She mumbled a happy birthday to Sylvie Malfoy, and she followed Voldemort out of the dining room.

"I hope I didn't embarrass you, Master," she said as they walked up the stairs. He glanced over his shoulder, down at her as she followed him, and he assured her,

"You did not embarrass me. They all perceived you as some sort of secret weapon."

"Oh. Really? That's marvelous." Hermione's mind pulsed with genuine surprise and happiness, and Voldemort felt his lips curl up a little. He walked down the corridor toward Hermione's rooms, and then he paused. Why had he walked her all the way up here? He frowned.

"I'll see you tomorrow morning in my office, then," he told her. Hermione stared up at him and nodded, her eyes going wide. Her mind rushed with a wild, fleeting thought.

_Almost handsome._

Voldemort scowled and snapped quite sharply at her, "You look lovely, you realise."

Hermione shook her head and whispered, "I didn't… I'm sorry if I've…"

He suddenly found himself taking her face in his hands, and he told her, "You say you've come back in time to preserve me. To change history so that I am victorious. What is it that you find so appealing? You're a Muggle-born, and I am hideous. I was in your time, too. So, out with it. What is the appeal for you, you self-loathing, impossibly bookish little -"

"Your _power_," Hermione murmured, interrupting him. Voldemort gulped. She nodded in his hands, her eyes welling. "You are the most powerful wizard who has ever lived, and I am deeply invested in your success. My Lord. Master."

He bent then, his lips a hair's breadth from hers. His breath and hers mingled, a warm swirl in the air between them as her mind flared with a half-crazed thought.

_Lord Voldemort is about to kiss me. LORD VOLDEMORT IS ABOUT TO KISS ME. What am I going to do?_

"You should consider kissing him back," he murmured, and he pressed his lips to hers.

Hermione squealed frantically against his mouth, her hands grappling at the front of his velvet robes. Voldemort pulled back, realising at once that he'd gone entirely too far. He'd made a mistake. But when he stared down at her, her cheeks were crimson and her breath was coming in shallow pants as she shut her eyes and whispered,

"Oh. Oh, my goodness."

"I… erm." Voldemort cleared his throat roughly. "I obviously misread that situation."

"No. You did not." Hermione's voice was quite firm then. She raised her eyes to him and stared directly at him. Her mind was a confused jumble. He could see a lot of things, a lot of ideas and memories twining together inside her brain, but suddenly an image of Ronald Weasley jumped forth, and Voldemort knew what the problem was. He licked his lips and nodded.

"Goodnight, Hermione."

He turned around and stalked briskly toward the stairs, and he heard her voice say meekly from behind him,

"Goodnight, Master."

**Author's Note: If you wouldn't mind taking a brief moment to leave a comment, I'd be extremely grateful for the feedback. I really appreciate knowing your thoughts on this story!**


	8. Cake, Firewhisky, Wine, and Tea

Hermione Granger lay in bed at Malfoy Manor and stared at the ceiling, tears streaming from her cheeks onto the soft white pillow.

What had _happened?_

She had relived the moment over and over again - the feel of Lord Voldemort taking her face in his hands, the sensation of him dipping down and the way his breath had mixed with hers. She had run through the way she'd panicked, the way he'd read her mind and then told her to kiss him back before pushing his mouth against hers.

She ought to have screamed and flailed, she told herself. She ought to have whipped out her wand and cast a Cruciatus Curse upon the most wicked sorcerer who had ever lived for daring to kiss her. But instead, she'd reached out for his robes. She'd held onto the velvet and curled her fingers a little in desperate confusion, thinking distantly to herself that he tasted like cake and firewhisky.

Now she lay in bed and cried, trying to imagine what Harry and Ron would say if they knew what had happened. Harry would use his wand to blow things up, probably, in a furious rage. He'd stomp about and mutter curses and whip his wand through the air. And Ron? Ron would cry. His pale eyes would well with tears, and his cheeks would go pink, and he'd ask _Why?_ Why had Hermione let Lord Voldemort get close enough to kiss her?

_Because, Ronald, _Hermione would tell him, _I'm here ingratiating myself to him to save all of you. I'm trying to save Fred. I'm trying to save Sirius. I'm trying to save Neville's parents. All the students who died at Hogwarts in the battle. The Muggles that were turned into Inferi. James and Lily Potter. I'm doing this for them. I'm not a villain. I'm not wicked._

She swiped at her eyes and rolled onto her side, curling up into a little ball and reaching for her wand on the bedside table. She aimed it at her leather handbag and murmured,

"_Accio _Dreamless Sleep."

A little bottle came soaring out of Hermione's bag, and Hermione caught it from midair. She opened the little purple bottle and administered herself one single drop. She put the stopper back in and Banished the bottle back into the Extended bag. She set her wand down and put her head back on the pillow, shutting her eyes. She felt the Dreamless Sleep settling into her veins, and thoughts of Ron and Harry and Lord Voldemort gave way to a deep, peaceful slumber.

* * *

It was ten minutes past nine when Hermione frantically knocked on the door of Lord Voldemort's office. She knocked and knocked until the door swung open, and Voldemort stood before her with his eyebrows raised.

"You're late," he noted.

"I'm sorry, Master," Hermione said quietly. "I took Dreamless Sleep last night, and I overslept this morning. I do apologise for my late arrival."

"No matter." Voldemort sniffed lightly as Hermione walked into the office. She'd managed to dress in a black pleated skirt and a mustard-coloured jumper, with her hair pulled back into a low, loose chignon. But she was unglamorous today, she knew. Voldemort shut the door behind her, and there was an instantaneous crackle of magic that Hermione sometimes perceived from dangerously powerful people. She'd felt it once or twice around Albus Dumbledore in crucial moments. It was a discharge of magical power, she thought. Something was troubling him.

"I wish to apologise," Voldemort said, turning from the door. "I presume you did not come back in time to be kissed."

"I…" Hermione folded her hands before her and gulped. She pushed forward the strongest thought she could muster. _I came back in time for you, Master._

"Sit. I was just finishing off a few letters, and then we shall return to the task of your memories," Voldemort pronounced. Hermione nodded and joined him at his desk. He glanced to his drinks cart and then frowned. "You won't have had breakfast."

"I'm all right. Really." Hermione gave him a weak little smile, but he scowled and stared at her for a moment.

"Rosemary scones?" He guessed, and Hermione felt her cheeks go warm. She could feel him pulling forth a memory from the recesses of her head. She was baking with her mother in their Muggle kitchen. They were making savoury scones with rosemary, cracking eggs into a bowl and measuring out flour. Hermione's mother was talking quietly, gently, and Hermione was very young. Her eyes burned a little, and she said,

"They've always been my favourites."

"Hmm." Voldemort nodded. He turned his attention to his desk then and murmured, "Avery and Lestrange are meeting with me this coming Monday. Tell me… were they helpful to me in the life you knew?"

"I knew Raddox Lestrange's sons, Rodolphus and Rabastan," Hermione admitted, "but I didn't know Raddox. Perhaps he was there. They wore masks, your Death Eaters. I didn't know a lot of them. I do know that Rodolphus survived the war and was sent back to Azkaban."

Voldemort pursed his lips and murmured, "Rodolphus is marrying Bellatrix Black once the two of them leave Hogwarts. They've been promised to one another for some time."

"Promised," Hermione repeated, curling up her lip in mild disgust. She tried to mask her distaste for the ancestral Pureblood tradition of arranged marriage. She dared to ask, "Does Bellatrix actually want to marry Rodolphus?"

"I think Bellatrix would much rather marry me." Voldemort sounded very amused then, and he drummed his fingers on his desk. Hermione's mouth fell open in surprise, but Voldemort shrugged and said, "The last I saw of her, before she left for her sixth year at Hogwarts, she was a fawning sycophant desperate for my attentions. Me. A scarred and broken old man. Plainly, she sees my potential. As you've pointed out, she turned out to be my most loyal and ardent servant, staying true to me when virtually no one else did."

Hermione blinked. A strange stab went through her belly, a coil forming in her abdomen that she couldn't quite identify. She smiled crookedly and said,

"She and her husband Rodolphus were both desperately loyal to you, to be certain. But she was utterly mad when I knew her. Ruined by her years in Azkaban. And she…"

Hermione dragged her fingers over the place on her arm where Bellatrix had carved the word _Mudblood_ into her flesh. Voldemort dragged his tongue over his teeth and said softly,

"Perhaps this time around, it would be beneficial to me to keep Bellatrix for myself instead of marrying her off to Rodolphus. If I kept her closer, closer than even the dearest servant, then I -"

"With all due respect, Master, would it not put her fervent servitude at risk to have her as a lover or a wife?" Hermione posited. Voldemort narrowed his eyes in confusion, and Hermione clarified, "Lovers are easily scorned. Affections fade and turn. Bellatrix, from what I could tell, scrambled after you like a puppy dog running after its master. She was desperate for any bone you would throw her. If you gave her too much…"

"You're right, of course." Voldemort nodded firmly. "Tossing her little hints of affection, toying with her every now and then, is much more strategic. She should stay with Rodolphus, but I'll give her little touches and kisses from time to time, just to keep her hungry."

Hermione's mind flared with an ugly sensation. She tried, very distantly, to convince herself that it was just her loathing of Bellatrix putting this negativity into her mind. But there was something else in her thoughts, something Voldemort was pulling out, something wispy and emerald. Hermione sniffled a little and suggested,

"I don't want to interrupt your letter-writing, Master."

"As it happens, one of my letters is to Bellatrix herself," said Voldemort. "Little seventeen-year-old fool that she is, she's sent me a letter just to see how I am. I was trying to figure out the best response. Your suggestion?"

Hermione gaped. He wanted her suggestion on how best to respond to Bellatrix Black's letter? Hermione let out a little noise and finally said,

"Erm… here. Try writing this." Voldemort picked up a quill and dipped it into ink, and he put the nib to parchment as Hermione said softly, "_Dear Miss Black, I am quite well. I appreciate your kind inquiry into my well-being, and highly value your communication in general. I trust you are devoting yourself fully to your studies, with the understanding that academic success will be -"_

Suddenly Voldemort was laughing, and he looked up from the letter he was writing. Hermione frowned, and Voldemort chuckled,

"Of course you're lecturing her about academic excellence."

"I'm not lecturing her about anything, Master; you are." Hermione grinned. Voldemort shook his head and said,

"_The understanding that academic success will be…? _Continue."

"_Academic success will be critical to what you will accomplish for me in the future. Wishing you all health and happiness. - LV._"

"That's quite good." Voldemort set down his quill and blew on his letter to dry the ink. He rolled up the parchment and began sealing it with wax, and Hermione sighed. She tried to imagine a very young Bellatrix. She was only seventeen here. She was the age Hermione had been when she'd been fighting Voldemort in the world she'd left behind. She was just a girl here. Hermione pinched her lips and wondered if she'd be able to keep her cool around Bellatrix. Of course she would, she told herself. She'd kept her cool around Abraxas Malfoy, around people who would grow into Death Eaters… around Lord Voldemort himself.

Voldemort pulled at a heavy rope beside his desk, which seemed to trigger a silent alarm or alert of some kind. A moment later, Dobby Apparated into the office with a crack, and he bowed so low that he almost tipped over.

"Take these letters to the owlery and send them off," Voldemort ordered, handing over three scrolls. "Miss Black's goes to Hogwarts; Avery's and Lestrange's to their homes. Oh, and whip up some rosemary scones and bring them in with some pumpkin juice."

"I'm all right," Hermione insisted. "Really. I don't need breakfast. Thank you."

Dobby looked from one of them to the other, as though he wasn't sure who to listen to. Hermione held up a hand and shook her head, flashing Voldemort a little smile.

"I'm all right, Master."

"It's no trouble," he insisted. Hermione huffed a breath and said softly to Dobby,

"Thank you."

Dobby snapped his fingers and Disapparated with another crack. Once he'd gone, Voldemort rose from his chair, and Hermione instinctively pulled herself up to stand with him. Voldemort began to pace, and Hermione stood before him in the centre of the office.

"Tell me," Voldemort demanded, "what you know about the Chamber of Secrets."

Hermione let out a long breath. She shut her eyes and opened her mind to him, feeling a whooshing sensation as he rushed headlong through her memories. She showed him the lesson where Hermione had been taught about Salazar Slytherin putting the Chamber of Secrets in the bowels of Hogwarts. Next, she showed the victims - Mrs Norris, Colin Creevey, and Hermione herself, who had been Petrified after carefully using a mirror because she'd discovered the secrets of the Basilisk using the pipes in the school. She showed him the way she'd been healed up with Mandrake root in the hospital wing. She demonstrated the storytelling that had taken place about Tom Riddle in the Chamber, coming to form and talking to Harry until the Basilisk had been killed, the diary had been destroyed, and Ginny's terrible predicament had been uncovered. Gilderoy Lockhart's life in St Mungo's showed itself in Hermione's mind. Fawkes' cry peeled out in her head. Hagrid's voice boomed; she knew that Tom Riddle had blamed Hagrid and his Acromantula for the Chamber's opening in the 1940s. She knew about Moaning Myrtle. She knew all of it.

Hermione's eyes blinked open slowly, and she felt Voldemort slowly slide out of her mind. He nodded and said carefully,

"Quite plainly, I need to prevent that book from winding up in the wrong hands. And it would seem as though opening the Chamber of Secrets was a very foolish endeavour, given everything else going on. Low on the priority list, as it were."

"It felt rather significant at the time," Hermione said. "We were children."

"You figured it out rather brilliantly, didn't you?" Voldemort raised his eyebrows. "You got to the bottom of my mysterious -"

"I read some books," Hermione interrupted, "like I always do. It was your magic that practically closed the school. It was your magic that nearly gave you a new form from your Horcrux."

"But you now think it was wrong to destroy that Horcrux." Voldemort's gaze bored straight into Hermione's, and she tried desperately to clear her mind as she said very firmly,

"Yes, I do. Master."

_CRACK!_

Hermione startled and whirled as Dobby reappeared, pushing a little tea cart. He had a plate full of scones on one level of the rolling tray, and the other level had two cups of steaming tea.

"Dobby has brought breakfast for Madam Granger," he said warmly. "Dobby hopes Madam Granger will enjoy her rosemary scones, Madam."

"Thank you." Hermione quirked up half her mouth. She picked up a scone and chewed it, feeling abruptly emotional at the flavour. She chewed and swallowed, nodding. "Delicious."

"Anything else, sir?" Dobby twined his long fingers together, and Voldemort just shook his head. He was staring strangely at Hermione, and she realised she'd been thinking distantly about just how delicious the scone was, about how she didn't mind this place as badly as she'd thought she was going to mind it. She'd been thinking, somewhere deep in her head, that this time wasn't the torture that she'd been expecting.

Dobby disappeared with a pop, and Hermione set down the rosemary scone, brushing her fingers together. She picked up one of the cups of tea and sipped, shutting her eyes and thinking with all of her might,

_When he kissed me last night, I wasn't afraid. I should have been afraid, but I wasn't. I should have been disgusted, but I wasn't. Instead I reached for his robes. He tasted like cake and firewhisky._

"Hermione," Voldemort said rather firmly. She sipped her tea again but opened her eyes to look at him. She tried not to find him handsome. After all, this was Lord Voldemort. They had been vicious enemies in the life she'd lived. She'd hated him, and she'd fought against him. But now she was here. She was on a mission. And it wasn't that he was a handsome man; he wasn't. He was ragged around the edges, pale and sagging and grey-haired. But there was something pulsing from him, a powerful sense of intimidation that made Hermione's skin prickle. She couldn't help herself from being taken aback by him. She couldn't control the way he made her breath catch just a little bit in her chest. It wasn't that she found his face handsome the way young Tom Riddle had been rumoured to be handsome. That wasn't it at all. His appeal, that throbbing energy that was coming off of him now, was his sheer force.

"You helped me with that letter to Bellatrix Black," Voldemort said quietly, "and I think you're right about her. It will do me better to keep her at just an arm's length. Close enough for control, but far enough for stability. You're right, I think."

"You'll do what is best, Master," Hermione assured him, but he glanced away and said in a sardonic sort of voice,

"Plainly, left to my own devices, I do not always do what is best. Your lived experiences are proof enough of that."

"Well, I shall help you in any way that I am able," Hermione assured him. He flicked his eyes to her, and suddenly a manic thought flashed though her mind.

_He tasted like cake and firewhisky._

She watched his throat bob, and he murmured to her, "You tasted like red wine."

Her breath began to accelerate in her chest, and she walked rather quickly toward Voldemort. She stopped just short of him, staring up at him, and she whispered,

"You did not misread the situation last night, My Lord."

"No?" She could hear his breath shake a little then, which surprised her. His scarred lips visibly trembled, and as he loomed over Hermione, she realised she could smell leather and wood coming from him. She sensed leather and wood and sheer power. He was resonating with magic, and Hermione found herself staring up at his dark eyes in wonder. She erased the hate she'd always felt for him; he must not sense that from her right now. She replaced it with awe, with veneration. She let him read reverence in her mind. He was powerful, and she was amazed by him.

He had tasted like cake and firewhisky.

He licked his bottom lip and whispered,

"You tasted like red wine. And you are very intelligent, I find."

"Am I?" Hermione's eyes burned a little. She blinked up at him, and she let her eyes flutter shut as he brushed a knuckle along her jaw. He said quietly,

"You've been reading and reading all your life. You've fought hard. But before you came back in time, Hermione, you were slaving away in a mundane Ministry position, lost in an unhappy marriage. Now you're a conscript on a mission to change history. You're my secret weapon."

She shivered, remembering that that had been what people had thought of her at Sylvie Malfoy's birthday dinner. She was Lord Voldemort's secret weapon. Suddenly Hermione found herself thinking that she had more potential than she'd given herself credit for. Perhaps O.S. and friends had known something, after all. Perhaps they had known what she could do. Perhaps they really had been right to send her back here, even though it meant leaving behind everything she'd known. She was on a mission. She was…

A weapon.

Hermione opened her eyes and gazed up at Lord Voldemort. Her fear had dissipated, somehow. It had been replaced by a resolute, steely sense of determination. She nodded up at him and whispered,

"I've come to change what happens."

Voldemort bent towards Hermione, and his breath was warm against her lips as he hummed,

"Tell me to stop, and I'll stop."

Hermione shook her head and let her lips brush against his. "Don't stop, Master."

She felt a hand press to the small of her back then, pulling her a little closer. His right hand stroked at her jaw, and he pressed his lips to hers. Once, twice, three times. The third time, Hermione parted her mouth, and he dragged his tongue over her bottom lip. Hermione had squealed in desperation the first time he'd kissed her. Now she let out a deeper, more visceral noise against his mouth, and he deepened the kiss. He pulled her lip between his teeth, and his tongue delved more deeply against the roof of her mouth. She twined her tongue with his and felt a solid flush of craving go straight to her core.

She _wanted_ this man. She should have been absolutely disgusted and horrified by the way she felt a warm throb between her legs, but she quickly shoved away any hint of antagonism in her mind, knowing he needed to feel desire from her. She let him feel the way he had lit her body like a candle, the way her blood had gone hot in her veins. She panted through her nose as her hands instinctively went to his biceps, running up and down the sleeves of his woolen robes. He kept on kissing her for what felt like an eternity, until Hermione was so breathless that she thought desperately,

_I'm drowning in him. I'm barely alive, and I don't even mind._

"Hermione." He pulled back, his scarred lips shining and swollen. His dark eyes glinted madly, one eye drooping a bit as his gaze flicked around Hermione's face. She was red-cheeked; she could feel the heat flushing through her face. Her own lips felt bruised from the intense kissing. She stared up at him, still holding onto the sleeves of his robes, and felt his hand cinch at the small of her back. He dragged a thumb under her eye and murmured,

"My secret weapon, hmm? Yes, I think so. And there is a use for you, to be certain. Now, Madam Granger, why don't you go to the library and get yourself some books? There's going to be a cold rain today; you ought to curl up before a fire with some tea. We'll dine in the violet parlour at seven."

"Yes, My Lord," Hermione whispered. She tried not to think of Ron, and as a thought of her husband eked into her mind, she shoved the idea of him away and replaced it by reliving the feel of Voldemort's blistering kiss. As she walked out of his office, trembling and touching at her lips, her mind whirled and her stomach fluttered.

He had tasted like peppermint tea this time. He must have had it with his breakfast, she thought. It had been a clear taste. Fresh and cold and heady all at once. She drank in the memory of it and played the kiss over and over in her head as she climbed the stairs up to the second floor. She paused in the stairwell and leaned against the wall, pressing her hands to the stones and shutting her eyes.

She thought of his face, of the smell and taste of him. And then she thought of the way he vibrated with power, the way he exuded magical potential. She was shaken by him, she realised. She was here to destroy his destiny, but she could not bring herself to hate the way he'd kissed her. No matter how hard she tried to convince herself that kissing Lord Voldemort was the worst thing Hermione Granger could possibly do, all she could think of was the feel of his hand on her face, of his hand on her back, of his lips on hers, of his power crackling through the room.

She turned and climbed the stairs, wondering just how lost she was.

**Author's Note: Drama with Bellatrix! A **_**real**_ **kiss! And Hermione starting to question her own motives! Now, who's up for a nice trip to Diagon Alley? Nothing could possibly go wrong, right?**

**As always, thank you so very much for reading and a massive thanks for reviewing!**


	9. Capable

Lord Voldemort paced around his office like a rat in a cage. He swigged at his tumbler of firewhisky and realised he'd gotten himself just a little bit drunk. He blinked, bleary-eyed with his head swimming, and finished off another mouthful of the drink. He Banished the glass to his desk with wandless magic and put his fingertips to his eyebrow.

Hermione Granger had been foretold to him, he thought. In the early 1960s, Odysseus Siegel had been sitting four glasses of wine into an evening and had told Tom Riddle that she'd be coming. Then, somehow, in the year 2004, O.S. and friends had given Hermione a One-Way Time-Turner with the idea that she would come back in time to save Lord Voldemort from a fate of being completely vanquished. And she was doing a fine job of it, too. She was showing him all the information she could so that he would make better decisions this time around. He wouldn't make the same missteps he'd made in her lived existence. He would be stronger this time.

He could just dispose of her once he'd extracted every memory he needed, he thought. He could clear her mind of every thought that would help him, and if he was feeling particularly generous, he'd Obliviate her and turn her loose to the Muggles. Or, if he felt like it, he'd cast a quick Killing Curse and Vanish her corpse. But instead he'd kissed her - twice now - and he felt like doing it again.

She was awfully pretty, he thought. More than that, she was uncommonly brainy. Her mind and magic worked in ways very few others' did. She really could be a weapon, Voldemort thought. The first time around, he hadn't had her. First of all, she hadn't been born in 1968; she'd been born in 1979. But even in the years when she'd fought him, Dumbledore had used her in part because Voldemort had rejected people like Hermione Granger wholesale.

Perhaps, Voldemort thought, there was a middle ground. Perhaps he could spark a movement more like Grindelwald's, a movement fighting for the supremacy of the magical world over the Muggle world, inclusive of Half-Bloods and even Muggle-borns, with a hierarchy in place. The Sacred Twenty-Eight would be at the top of the social pyramid, of course, because they had the purest blood and therefore would maintain the most power and control. Other Purebloods would be given high-ranking positions in a new administration. Half-Bloods would be encouraged to marry other Half-Bloods to produce new Purebloods. And Muggle-borns would be encouraged to marry Half-Bloods in order to produce a weaker, but still valid, magical offspring.

Yes. He could see it now; it was all spelling itself out in his head. Centaurs and other intelligent Beings like Vampires, Goblins, and Veela would be accorded esteemed positions within the magical community owing to their intellect. Lesser creatures would not be destroyed, but would be ruled over by the superior magical minds.

Muggles, of course, were not to be fraternised with in any capacity whatsoever. The magical world was to exist separately from the Muggle world, because magic was special and unique. Unlike Grindelwald, Voldemort would promote isolationism. Where Grindelwald had called for the wizarding world to step out of the shadows to rule over Muggles, Voldemort would call for a magical world that sealed itself off from the Muggles and placed itself squarely atop that inferior existence.

Yes, he thought frantically. He could see it all now. And there was a place for Hermione Granger in all of that. She could be his secret weapon. She could be the arrow in his bow, arming him against defeat. She was waiting for him in the violet parlour, he thought distantly, and he needed to go to her now.

As he walked out of his office and down the corridor, he stumbled a little, and one of the portraits of a Renaissance man on the wall called out,

"Steady there, man."

"I'm fine," Voldemort snapped, though of course he was more than a bit tipsy. He'd had two tumblers of firewhisky whilst considering what it had felt like to kiss Hermione this morning. She had tasted divine, he thought. She'd felt warm and soft beneath his hands. He could still feel her back beneath the press of his palm, the downy skin along her cheekbone under his thumb. He shut his eyes for a moment, pausing as he walked, and tried not to let it all overtake him again. He'd already found himself holding a shaking quill at one point today, unable to finish off a letter to Cygnus Black because he'd been so distracted by the memory of kissing Hermione. Now he opened his eyes and forced himself toward the violet parlour, licking his lips as he walked into the room.

She was standing there in her pleated black skirt and mustard-coloured jumper, her hair in its loose chignon, and she smiled a bit at him. _Legilimens, _he incanted in his own head, and immediately her mind hit him with a desperate sense of want. She wanted him. She had enjoyed the kiss. She wanted more. He pulled out of her head with a slip and cleared his throat. He wandlessly dragged out her chair and mumbled,

"I'm going to Diagon Alley tomorrow morning. Errands. I'll be bringing you with me."

"Yes, Master." Hermione nodded obediently at him, her eyes going a bit cheery as she declared, "It'll give me a chance to go to Flourish and Blotts."

"What, is the library here insufficient?" Voldemort narrowed his eyes as he sat, and Hermione chewed her lip a little as she said,

"I'd like to get a copy of _Stars Within Us: Advanced Astronomical Calculations._ The skies here are clear, and I find myself staring out my window at night."

"That book isn't in the library here?" Voldemort felt himself almost concerned. Hermione shook her head and shrugged.

"I tried Summoning it from the shelves, but no luck. It's fine; I'll get myself a copy."

"Very well," Voldemort nodded. Their food appeared then - seared scallops with bacon and orange sauce. He raised his eyebrows and said, "Hope you like seafood."

Hermione said nothing. He felt a pulse from her mind. She did not like seafood. Voldemort cleared his throat and said,

"We'll get you something else."

"This is fine, Master," Hermione insisted. He opened his mouth to say that he'd fetch Dobby, but Hermione immediately cut into a scallop and took a bite. He felt her brain wince in discomfort at the flavour. She did not like it. He scowled.

"You are displeased with the food, so we shall get you something else," he snapped. "_DOBBY!"_

A moment later, the House-Elf appeared in the room with a little crack, and Hermione appeared to be gagging through her bite of scallop. Voldemort pinched his lips into a line and said,

"Bring us something else to eat. How about butternut squash soup with crusty bread, Hermione? Does that suit?"

Her eyes were watering as she tried not to make a fuss. Dobby snapped his fingers and vanished. Hermione huffed a breath, and for a long moment, there was silence. Then the plates gave way to bowls, which slowly filled with yellowish-orange liquid. Baguettes of bread appeared on the plates beside the soup, and Hermione murmured,

"I'm sorry, My Lord."

"Now I know," he said. "You don't care for seafood. And you know that I don't care for mushrooms."

"No?" She smiled a little at him. "I shall remember that."

"I was doing some thinking, before I got a little drunk," he told her. She gaped at him, wide-eyed, and then smirked. He nodded. "Oh, yes. I've had more than a little firewhisky this evening, Madam Granger."

"Have you, Master?" She laughed a bit, exuding jollity. Her mind was glowing, he thought. He sighed and dipped his bread into his soup. He took a bite and sipped his wine, admitting,

"I need water, not wine. I could Transfigure it."

"That trick's been done before. Other way round, though," Hermione joked. Voldemort smiled. He got the reference, having grown up with Anglican nuns taking care of him. He sipped his wine again and told her,

"I was thinking that my movement could focus on a hierarchy of witches and wizards atop a magical community that includes places for all intelligent Beings," he said, "existing completely separate from the Muggle world. Our priority would be on isolating ourselves from Muggle intrusion on our culture, on maintaining bloodlines, and on creating new bloodlines. Beings of high intellect would have a place at the table, so to speak. What do you think?"

Hermione's face shifted. Her eyes blinked slowly. He couldn't read her, suddenly. He frowned and pushed into her mind with Legilimency.

_If that's the path he takes, he will win, _she was thinking. _If he includes Muggle-borns in any capacity whatsoever, and if he does not seek to destroy intelligent Beings, he will win. If he marries Half-Bloods together and venerates the offspring as new Purebloods, he will win. This is his path to victory. If he follows this course, he will win._

Voldemort extracted himself from Hermione's mind and tipped his head to the side. He narrowed his eyes at her and asked quietly,

"And what do you think, Madam Granger, of that path for Lord Voldemort?"

She spoke very clearly then as she raised her wine glass and said, "To the Dark Lord's victory."

He couldn't breathe all of a sudden. He picked up his own wine and downed it in three big gulps. He set down the empty Beaujolais glass and pushed back his chair. He stalked over to the grand piano, his dinner forgotten, and sat at the bench. He was drunk; the firewhisky he'd had before coming here had settled into his veins now.

She was too much, he thought. So he sat down at the piano and opened it, placing his long fingers carefully upon the keys.

He'd taken his first piano lesson as a boy of five years at Wool's Orphanage. He'd been an angry, brooding young creature, and the matron had thought that music lessons would be good for Tom. He'd shown immense talent, progressing quickly through his studies with the Muggle piano teacher. By the time he'd left for Hogwarts at age eleven, he was playing complex Chopin scherzos. At school, he'd accompanies Flitwick's choir as a hobby, and as a way to show off. He'd won first place in the Hogwarts Talent Show that had been organised in his fifth year, partially because everyone had loved Tom Riddle, and partially because he had been so accomplished at the piano that the second-place competitor had been left in the dust. After graduating from Hogwarts, Tom had occasionally used the piano in the White Wyvern, serenading people who were eating at the pub and getting his meals for free in exchange. He'd played in wealthy people's homes on the Continent, showcasing his talent in order to win favour and access. Here at Malfoy Manor, he played often, mostly as a form of stress relief.

He played a low chord with his left hand, his right hand trickling around in a moving scale. He began to sway gently as he played, his left hand migrating chords up and down as his right hand flicked about expertly. He raised his eyes to see that Hermione was still sitting at the table, staring at him. He curled up half his mouth at her and peered into her head, and he caught a stray thought halfway through her thinking it.

… _sexiest thing I've ever seen in my entire…_

She had a vivid memory of being in Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, where there had been an out-of-tune piano. She'd played Beethoven there; she'd had basic lessons as a girl. But she was nowhere near as skilled as Voldemort. She'd tried to teach Ron Weasley to play, but he'd been hopeless. Voldemort was an expert, she was thinking. He knew exactly how to crash his hands in thundering chords, how to wander and roam around the keys with a flittering touch. She was coming alive, he could feel. She was trembling on the inside, watching him play piano like this.

Voldemort chomped his lip and turned his attention back to the piece he was playing, a century-old concerto by a wizarding composer named Johannes Friedman. His left hand stretched to accommodate the aching chords of the piece, whilst his left hand plinked out the feathery rhythm atop. He was nearing the end now, and Hermione was rising from her chair, abandoning her own soup. She was walking slowly toward him, Voldemort could see out of the corner of his eye. He glanced up to see her with parted lips, with hooded eyes, and she was pulsing with scarlet want.

Voldemort gulped hard and finished off the concerto with a dramatic flare of his right hand, a mighty flourish of notes that extended up into the highest register of keys, accented by thudding, percussive chords with his left hand. He slowly pulled his fingers from the piano and shut the lid, and he muttered,

"I play better when I'm sober."

"Well." Hermione seemed like she wanted to reply with some witty comeback, some sharp rebuttal, but when he glanced up to her, she was just staring down at him and breathing rather heavily. Voldemort pushed the piano bench back a little from the instrument and sniffed, deciding that now was as good a time as any to push everything just a little too far. He could feel longing from her; her mind was whirling with all sorts of thoughts about how talented and powerful he was. And she was thinking, in the back of her head, that he was going to wind up winning this time around. He swallowed hard and decided that he wanted to keep her very close indeed, so he stared at her for a moment and then whispered,

"I am a little drunk."

"So you've said, Master," Hermione nodded. He worked past the knot in his throat and told her,

"Your mind isn't like anyone else's in the whole world, I don't think. I hold that belief for a lot of reasons, but I… your mind is fascinating to me. So."

Her honey-coloured eyes flared at that. She nodded, and he beckoned to her as he said,

"Come here, Hermione."

She approached him and stood before the piano bench, walking up between his legs. Voldemort's breath hitched in his nostrils as she stepped close - so close - and he felt her desire rolling from her mind.

_Capable._

The word filled his head. He wasn't sure, suddenly, if it had come from her thoughts or from his own. Was she thinking that he was capable, or was he thinking that she was capable? He frowned up at her. Both, probably. He licked his lip and dared to reach for her waist. She was just short enough, and he was just tall enough, that she hardly loomed over him as he sat. She bent down a little as his hands settled over her mustard-coloured jumper, and she whispered,

"May I kiss you?"

"Mmm-hmm." He was surprised by the way she rather enthusiastically pushed her mouth onto his. He sucked in air hard, feeling her lips nudge his open. He grunted quietly as her tongue hesitated at the entrance of his mouth, and he squeezed her waist. He pulled at her, urging her down onto him. She moved quickly then, so quickly that Voldemort hardly knew what was happening. She climbed onto him, straddling his hips and joining him on the piano bench as her black pleated skirt fanned out around them. Her hands pushed into his greying, thinning hair, her fingernails coursing against his scalp.

Suddenly he wasn't self-conscious about his looks. As she sat on his lap and kissed him, her tongue dancing with his, he didn't care that he had a drooping eyelid and a smashed cheekbone. She was breathing quickly; she wanted him. She obviously didn't mind the scar tissue on his lips beneath hers. She clearly didn't object to how pale he was. She didn't mind how he looked. She wanted him because he radiated magical potential and because he exuded talent. He was powerful, and she craved that power. She wanted him because he was Lord Voldemort.

This was profoundly different, he thought, from the times girls had wanted him because he'd been handsome young Tom Riddle.

One of his hands worked its way up under the hem of her jumper, and as his fingers slid up her flat belly, all he could think was that she had the softest skin in the entire world. No one on Earth had skin softer than her. His fingers cupped a breast through the thin cotton material of her bra, and she let out a little squeak into their kiss. She broke her mouth from his and tipped her head back a little, and Voldemort seized. He leaned forward and latched onto her neck, and Hermione gasped. He suckled at the skin beneath her ear, lapping carefully and not biting. He didn't want to mark her up; it didn't seem like the right occasion for bruising her.

She moaned deeply and ground her hips down against his, rubbing intensely against the growing hardness in his trousers. His cock was aching now. He'd flushed completely firm for her, and he was throbbing beneath his robes. He needed relief somehow. She was only making it worse, rolling and rocking atop him as she massaged his scalp and he kissed her neck. He felt her nipple peaked hard beneath his thumb, and when he pinched it, she cried out a little. He was going to lose himself, he realised. She was going to make him lose all control, right here in this -

"Oh. A thousand apologies for the interruption."

Hermione yelped and tumbled off of Voldemort's lap, landing in an ungraceful heap on the ground in between him and the piano. Voldemort took a shaking, seething breath and glared at the doorway, where Sylvie Malfoy had appeared. She stood there quite imperiously, her chin tipped up as she surveyed the scene before her. She wore elegant midnight blue robes, perfectly tailored, her hair coiffed in curls, and she said,

"Abraxas and I had hoped you might join us for dessert this evening. I see you are busy. I'll tell him no."

"It's… erm." Hermione used the piano to haul herself up, straightening her skirt and yanking down her jumper. Her cheeks were deep crimson, from lingering arousal and from humiliation, and she looked like she was going to cry.

"We'll come to dessert, of course, Sylvie," Voldemort said smoothly. "We never even got around to eating our soup. Custard tart and syllabub for dinner will be just fine, won't it, Hermione?"

"Yes, My Lord. Of course," Hermione mumbled, bowing her head. He sensed red-hot embarrassment and something deeper, darker etching itself in her mind. He pried in and felt the thought.

_They thought I was his secret weapon; now they'll just think I'm his whore._

Voldemort cleared his throat roughly, determined not to let that be the case. He rose from the piano bench, his head whirling from whisky and wine and Hermione and surprise. He straightened his robes and put his hand between Hermione's shoulder blades, and he said softly to her,

"Let's go have some dessert."

**Author's Note: Well. That got… steamy. Way to muck it up, Sylvie, right? Next up, a trip to Diagon Alley, as promised. Thanks very much indeed for all the feedback!**


	10. No Ice Cream Today

Hermione stared at her reflection in the mirror above her sink as she cleaned her teeth, her face flushing red and hot as she relived what had happened the night before. She'd been grinding against Lord Voldemort when Sylvie Malfoy had brazenly walked into the room, interrupting the moment, shamelessly bringing up a dessert nobody wanted. Voldemort and Hermione had reluctantly followed Sylvie into the dining room, where a bewildered Abraxas Malfoy had seemed baffled by everyone's quiet. Hermione had been red-faced and angry during dessert. Voldemort had spoken sharply to Sylvie and Abraxas about running errands the next morning. And Sylvie had smoothly, haughtily asked whether the custard was to everyone's liking.

It had, without a doubt, been the most awkward experience Hermione had ever undergone. She'd walked up to her rooms alone, leaving Voldemort outside the dining room. She'd known why he'd not walked her upstairs. He needed to ensure that Hermione wasn't seen as his whore, and if they wanted that to be the case, then they couldn't go snogging outside her rooms to say goodnight. So she'd said goodnight to him outside the dining room and hurried up the stairs to her black and white suite, and she'd taken some Dreamless Sleep after a quick shower.

Now she stood with her hair pulled into a tight braid, wearing a simple blue wool dress, and she spit out her toothpaste. She ought to despise everything about Lord Voldemort, she reminded herself. And she did. She told herself that. She did hate him; he was _Lord Voldemort. _She was Hermione Granger. Of course she hated him. But she shivered as she rinsed her mouth and face and remembered how he'd looked and sounded playing the piano. She had not been able to keep from kissing him then, from touching him. No matter how hard she tried to remind herself that her entire purpose here was to demolish his hopes and dreams, there was something darkly alluring about his power.

She knew what that power could do. He could destroy people. He would ruin lives. But she couldn't help finding his abilities supremely erotic. She wasn't sure why; it was a visceral reaction over which she seemed to have little control. Whenever Hermione tried to push Ron Weasley into her mind as a method of pushing Voldemort out, it didn't work. Instead she found herself dwelling on the things Ron had done over the last few years of marriage to annoy her, the ways he had chipped away at their friendship through the hardships of their married life. Hermione hadn't been innocent. She'd worn away at her relationship with Ron, too. There was no doubt of that. But what they'd been left with was a shadow of the warm life they'd had together as best friends.

Now, here, sent back in time on a one-way journey from which there was no return, Hermione was struggling to miss Ron very badly. She was finding it difficult to long for him. Instead she was finding herself caught up in her mission. She needed to ingratiate herself to Lord Voldemort. That was what O.S. and friends had told her. And she was trying to do that. It was working, it seemed. He viewed her as a secret weapon. If last night - before Sylvie Malfoy had walked in - had been any indication, he viewed her as something even more than that. He had kissed her _very_ enthusiastically. He had held her waist and caressed her breast through her bra. He had lathed his tongue over her neck.

He had played the piano.

Hermione sighed and walked out of her bathroom, sliding on flat shoes in her bedroom. She pulled on a lightweight outer robe. It was chilly today, she knew. She headed out of the black and white suite and smirked a little to herself as she remembered the way she'd awakened this morning to find a little tray on her bedside table. There had been a single rosemary scone with butter, a cup of pumpkin juice, and a little note reading,

_Good morning, Madam Granger. Meet me in my office at nine so we can go to Diagon Alley. - LV_

He'd sent the breakfast up with Dobby, Hermione knew. Suddenly she wondered whether he'd been like this with Bellatrix Black before she'd gone away to school. Had he sent her little notes and thoughtful things to make her happy? Why was she wondering that? Hermione pinched her lips as she descended the staircase and dragged her fingertips along the stone wall. Why was she thinking about Bellatrix?

"Good morning, Madam Granger."

Hermione practically groaned as she emerged from the staircase to find herself face-to-face with Sylvie Malfoy. Sylvie's lovely face was tipped up a bit, and she reached up to smooth her hair.

"Did you sleep well?" Sylvie asked. Hermione licked her lip.

"Very well. Thank you. I'm off to Diagon Alley."

"Ah, yes. Lord Voldemort had said he had some errands to run. I know he intends on keeping you… close," Sylvie said, flicking her eyes up and down Hermione's form. She narrowed her eyes and shrugged. "I do apologise for last night. It was uncouth."

"It was nothing," Hermione lied. Then, deciding she wanted to cover herself a little, she said, "Really, it was nothing. There's nothing to think about."

"Right." Sylvie curled up half her mouth. "I hope the two of you will join Abraxas and me for dinner tonight."

"I'd have to ask the Dark Lord," Hermione said very meaningfully. "It's up to him."

"I'll have Abraxas speak with him, then," Sylvie said. "Until later, Madam Granger."

"Yes. Thank you." Hermione huffed a breath and walked past Sylvie, whose elegant burgundy robes had a little train that dragged on the rug as she swished by. Hermione stalked down the corridor until she reached the door leading to Lord Voldemort's office. She knocked firmly on the door, and after about ten seconds, the door opened. Voldemort curled up his lips, staring down at Hermione, and said,

"Come on in. I have a few questions for you before we go to Diagon Alley."

"Of course, Master." Hermione pushed forth positivity about him in her mind. She mustn't let him feel the way she hated him. Suddenly it didn't feel as difficult to fix those thoughts. Suddenly it did not feel so complicated to replace the notion of hating him with the idea that she was in awe of him. She blinked as she shut his door and moved into his office, and he asked softly,

"_R.A.B._ \- the one who stole my locket Horcrux and replaced it with a decoy. Regulus Black. Orion's boy. He'll turn against me."

Hermione's lips fell open. Her mind whirled with fear that Voldemort was going to murder Regulus as revenge for a crime he hadn't yet committed. But then she realised that Regulus had died even in the timeline she'd known. Perhaps she could save him here. She nodded and said,

"He did turn against you, My Lord. But he became a Death Eater, of his own volition. I do think that if you'd had a more inclusive message, like the one you described to me last night, he would be far less likely to attempt to betray you in any way."

"It would be better to simply eliminate the boy now," Voldemort sniffed. Hermione sighed and shut her eyes, shaking her head.

"If you do that, Master," she said, "you risk turning all the Purebloods against you."

She was shocked at herself then. She was actually giving him advice. Why wasn't she playing along with him? _Yes!_ her conscience screamed at her. _Sacrifice Regulus now and turn the Purebloods against you and -_

"You'll risk his Pureblood relatives hating you, if they find out you had anything to do with his death," Hermione said, "and meanwhile you've got no insurance that he's ever going to betray you. Not with your adapted message. It would be wiser, I think, to keep a close eye on him. Don't let him into your innermost circle, to be certain. Don't give him the sort of access he had in my lived experience. But don't put yourself at risk over Regulus Black."

"Hmm." Voldemort cleared his throat. "Severus Snape. You said he was acting as a double agent for Dumbledore. He was in love with a Muggle-born called Lily, you said. The mother of Harry Potter. But Lily went on to marry a boy called James. All of that spiraled; Lily and Severus Snape had their friendship torn asunder by James' interloping. And Snape was pushed away from Lily, and Harry Potter was born of the union between Lily and James. And then Harry Potter destroyed me."

A cold flush went through Hermione. She knew at once what Voldemort was going to say. She shook her head, her eyes watering, unable to speak.

"I think I shall destroy James Potter before any of that happens," he said. "Think of it as euthanasia."

Hermione couldn't breathe. She shook her head wildly. She tried to imagine a wizarding world in which Severus Snape and Lily Evans had remained friends because Lily had never met James. She tried to imagine a world in which James and Lily had never given birth to Harry Potter, so Ron had never become friends with Harry. Who would have been Ron's best friend? Neville, probably. Or Seamus. Or Dean. Hermione blinked. She pictured a world where Harry Potter hadn't spent his childhood raised in a cupboard under the stairs by an abusive aunt and uncle. She tried to imagine a world without James, a world without Harry.

Was this murder, she wondered? James had been killed by Lord Voldemort in her lived existence. Was it any different if it happened earlier and erased James' adulthood? Was it worse if it prevented an entire Second Wizarding War? Was any of this murder if making Harry Potter Un-Born could stop the suffering and death of…

No. She'd gone mad, thinking like this. What on Earth had come over her, even entertaining a thought like this for half a moment? She gulped hard and stared at Voldemort, and he nodded.

"You are no killer," he whispered. He neared her, dragging his knuckle around her jaw. She shuddered, staring into his dark eyes. He bent down and brushed his lips against hers, his breath warm on her lips as he murmured, "You want to avoid as much misery and torment as you can for the community that welcomed you. Hmm? We want the same things, you and I. We want the best outcome. There will be no pain for your old friend; he won't ever have been born. You want me to win, don't you?"

Hermione tried to push away the thoughts that were creeping through her mind. She'd been sent here to change the course of history to ensure that the fewest number of people suffered. That was her mission. Could it be that that meant eliminating James Potter now? Could that possibly be a necessary act? She sighed against Voldemort's lips and tried to put pieces together in her head.

If James Potter was eliminated now, he and Lily Evans would never meet and fall in love. They would never join the Order of the Phoenix and defy Lord Voldemort three times as the Prophecy foretold. James and Lily wouldn't be murdered on Halloween. Harry Potter would never send a Killing Curse rebounding back to Lord Voldemort. The Dark Lord wouldn't vanish, only to return years later with a fresh body and a renewed sense of purpose. There would be no second war. Sirius Black would still be alive. Tonks, Lupin, Fred Weasley, and all the others would still be alive. Wouldn't they? If James Potter were only eliminated now instead of later, wouldn't it save all of that suffering?

"Yes," hissed Voldemort against Hermione's lips. He kissed her then, and Hermione let her body push up against his. His hand went to the small of her back, and she touched at his chest as she thrust forward a thought in her mind.

_You will do what is best for us all._

He grunted a little onto her mouth, and when he pulled back, he told her,

"I shall make my decision soon. Rest assured that your information has been… invaluable… Madam Granger. Now. Let's go to Diagon Alley, shall we?"

* * *

"Got your book?"

Hermione came walking down the flight of stairs in Flourish and Blotts and held up her copy of _Stars Within Us: Advanced Astronomical Calculations._ She saw that Voldemort had come into the shop with a canvas shopping bag of his own, having apparently gone to the apothecary for some potions supplies. She wondered what sort of potions-making he did these days, but she decided not to ask. As she approached him, he tipped his head and said,

"Draught of Peace. It helps me sleep without knocking me clear out like Dreamless Sleep. I'm a chronic insomniac, I'm afraid."

"Oh." Hermione raised her eyebrows and thought distantly that she ought to try using Draught of Peace to help drift off. Lately, she'd been using a drop of Dreamless Sleep, but it had been leaving her drowsy in the mornings. With a biting internal laugh, she thought to herself that perhaps all she needed was a good solid climax to put herself down, and then her eyes went wide as she realised Voldemort had probably been in her mind as she'd thought that. She flicked her gaze to his and watched his cheeks go pink. He cleared his throat and turned toward the cashier, gesturing.

"You'll need to pay for that book, I suppose," he said crisply. Hermione let out a little noise and nodded. She walked up to the desk where a stooped old witch waited behind the till, and she passed over a few Galleons. The witch handed her three Galleons back and said,

"That book's on clearance; it's been sitting on the shelf for years," said the old witch. Hermione gratefully took the money back and tucked it into her bag. She hugged the copy of _Stars Within Us: Advanced Astronomical Calculations_ to her chest and walked out of the bookshop with Voldemort. He smiled down at her, just a little, and asked,

"Up for some ice cream? It's chilly, I know, but…"

He trailed off then, and Hermione looked up to see a white-haired wizard, familiar but younger than she'd known him, walking straight toward them.

Albus Dumbledore.

She froze. She panted through her parted lips, panicking a little. What was she meant to do, she wondered? She reminded herself, almost aggressively, that she had not been instructed by O.S. and friends to come back in time and find Albus Dumbledore. She'd been instructed to come back in time and change Lord Voldemort's course. Otherwise she would have gone back to 1932 and kill a five-year-old Tom Riddle at Wool's Orphanage. Otherwise, she would have gone to 1936 and stop Albus Dumbledore from ever fetching Tom Riddle to Hogwarts. But she'd been told to find Lord Voldemort at the masked ball in 1968 and ingratiate herself to him. She hadn't been given this One-Way Time Turner with the expectation that she would murder Tom Riddle before he made his Horcruxes. She hadn't been given this Time-Turner with the expectation that she would go running straight to Albus Dumbledore.

And she needed to rein in her thoughts _now,_ she thought frantically. He would be scanning her mind. So she desperately thought to herself all the negative things she could about Dumbledore. She stared at the old man before her, just a little bit younger than the ancient wizard she'd known, and she painted him wicked in her mind. She thought of the way Dumbledore had raised up Harry Potter knowing full well that the boy would be a sacrificial lamb. She thought of the way he'd manipulated Severus Snape as a double agent and forced Snape to commit murder. She thought of the way Dumbledore had concealed his own dubious past and portrayed himself as a spotless hero.

"Hello, Tom," said Dumbledore smoothly as he approached the two of them in Diagon Alley. Voldemort sniffed a little and said tightly,

"You know full well that's not my name anymore, Dumbledore."

"To me, at least, you will always be that sad little boy in Wool's Orphanage, Tom," Dumbledore said. "I shall never forget that little boy, nor the Head Boy at Hogwarts. I shall never forget the young man who came begging for a teaching position at the school. I am sorry I had to turn you down for that, my dear boy."

"Don't condescend, Dumbledore," Voldemort sneered. Dumbledore raised his white brows and turned to Hermione.

"How very rude I'm being," he said. "I have not been introduced to your… to this lovely young witch."

"This is Madam Hermione Granger," Voldemort said sharply. "A Muggle-born who went undetected by the Ministry of Magic. You won't remember her from your school, because she didn't attend."

"And do you speak for yourself, Madam Granger?" Dumbledore asked, his voice light and airy. Hermione flicked her lips up and said warmly,

"Pleased to meet you, Professor Dumbledore. I've heard quite a lot about you."

"All of it good, I hope," Dumbledore nodded. Hermione flushed hot. Her mind buzzed with alarm. Was she doing the right thing? Was she making a mistake? Should she scream at Dumbledore right here in Diagon Alley? _Lord Voldemort goes on to be defeated by Harry Potter, and -_

It was too late for all that. Even if she could meet privately with Dumbledore and convince him that her intentions were pure against Voldemort, she and Dumbledore would have to work to find and destroy all of Voldemort's Horcruxes in this time. Then they'd have to eliminate him, and there was no guarantee that simply taking Voldemort out here was the right course of action. After all, O.S. and friends hadn't told her to kill Lord Voldemort. They'd told her to change his course of action. Her mission was clear, and it didn't involve running to Dumbledore.

And, anyway, she was getting less and less sure every day that she possessed the ability to stand before Albus Dumbledore with a heart full of loyalty and speak with venom against Lord Voldemort. She had no clue why her mind was turning against her, but it was. She was going mad, she thought. She was going utterly mad.

She needed to shield her thoughts, she thought desperately. She needed to shield them _now_, before Voldemort read her uncertainty. She pushed forth thoughts about resenting Dumbledore, thoughts about him using Harry and Snape, about the way Tonks and Lupin had given their lives so soon after their child had been born. She thought of kissing Voldemort, of the way he'd played the piano. She thought of wanting him, of wanting more. She thought of desiring the Dark Lord, of the way he'd made her body come alive, and she thought of the way Ron Weasley felt dull and painful in her head.

"Is there something specific you need, Dumbledore?" Voldemort snapped, "or did you stop me just to say hello?"

"I'll let you get your ice cream," Dumbledore said, narrowing his eyes at Hermione. Her eyes went wide, and suddenly she realised something. Albus Dumbledore was a Legilimens, just like Lord Voldemort. Her mind was just as vulnerable to Dumbledore as it was to Voldemort. What had Dumbledore seen in her head? Had he realised that she was not of this time? Had he seen that she and Dumbledore had once been allies, that she had fought against Voldemort? Had Dumbledore seen Hermione snared up in Voldemort's arms, years away from having destroyed his Horcruxes? She chomped her lip as Voldemort put his hand protectively between his shoulder blades and guided her away without another word. As Dumbledore turned and walked in the other direction, he called over his shoulder,

"Good day, Tom. Hermione."

_Hermione._ They hadn't given him her first name, she thought. He'd found it in her head. She felt dizzy then, thinking that it was very dangerous indeed that they'd run into Albus Dumbledore. Voldemort seemed to agree. He slid his fingers down Hermione's arm and laced them through hers, and he mumbled,

"No ice cream today. Sorry, but you're not leaving Malfoy Manor for the time being. Let's go."

He took her by Side-Along Apparition without another word, and Hermione gasped as she was pulled through the pinching black void, coming to in his office.

**Author's Note: Uh-oh. A lot to process here - Voldemort's thinking of taking out James Potter (and Hermione's brain is telling her that that might actually be a good idea!) and Albus Dumbledore may have just gotten wayyyyyy too much info out of Hermione's mind in Diagon Alley. What will Dumbledore do with what he's figured out? Will he move against Voldemort? Is Hermione in danger? Sylvie seems to be the least of everyone's concerns now.**

**Thanks as always for reading and reviewing.**


	11. Thunderstorm

Voldemort poked his poached egg until it broke, sending yolk spilling over his fingerling potatoes. He smeared the yolk with his fork and listened as Sylvie Malfoy asked Hermione,

"And you've got quite an interest in astronomy, have you?"

"I've got an interest in… well, just about everything," Hermione said. Voldemort speared a potato and brought it up to his mouth. He looked up to where Hermione sat beside him. She was cutting into her perfectly cooked steak and sitting up with a straight back at the Malfoys' table. She'd changed into a slightly more elegant red dress for dinner, and she looked quite pretty, Voldemort thought. He swallowed his potato and sipped at his red wine, and he informed Sylvie quite honestly,

"Hermione has read more books than anyone I've ever met."

"Have you? I confess I am not much of a reader." Sylvie laughed and took a sip of her own wine. Abraxas chuckled and chimed in,

"It's true. When I first met her, her English was terrible, and it was all I could do to get her to study the language. But reading books - in French or in English - has never been an interest of Sylvie's. You did read a few books to Lucius when he was little, but I think we mostly outsourced that to Dobby, didn't we?"

_Dobby read Lucius Malfoy his bedtime stories._ The thought flung from Hermione's mind. Voldemort flicked his eyes to her, and she blinked quickly. She had a lot of memories with Dobby, he knew. She was fond of the creature. She'd witnessed him die; Bellatrix had killed him with a dagger after Dobby had betrayed the Malfoys and tried to save Hermione and her friends. He sniffed a little and took a bite of steak. He took his time chewing it and then said to Abraxas Malfoy,

"We saw Albus Dumbledore today in Diagon Alley. I think you know very well that Dumbledore and I are not friends."

"No, indeed, sir." Abraxas raised his eyebrows. "Was there some sort of confrontation?"

"Erm…" Voldemort tipped his head. Hermione's mind whirled. He wasn't even prying into her head with Legilimency, but he could clearly feel what she was thinking.

_Of course there bloody well was a confrontation; that man was inside my thoughts and saw everything. He'll ruin everything._

"We'll need to keep a close eye on the man," Voldemort said tightly. Sylvie stared at Hermione for a long moment, and Voldemort scowled. He went straight into Sylvie's head and interpreted her French thoughts. He translated them, the words and the pulse, and he could feel what she was thinking. This young witch, Hermione Granger, was clearly dangerous. She possessed some sort of ability that Voldemort found valuable. Dumbledore running into Voldemort and Hermione had been contentious in some way. Who was this woman? Was she Voldemort's lover? Was she his slave? His secret weapon, as people had whispered at Sylvie's birthday party? Voldemort slid out of Sylvie's head and glanced to Abraxas.

"Had any letters from Lucius?" he asked lightly. Abraxas curled up his lips and shrugged.

"The boy is utterly enamoured with Narcissa Black, sir. I assume Cygnus and I will be drawing up papers soon enough."

"Don't rush into that," Voldemort warned. "Teenage romances are fleeting. You sign them up to marry now, and by the time they're out of Hogwarts -"

"My Lord," Hermione said quietly. He frowned and looked at her. Hermione swallowed hard and gave him a little smile. Draco. She was thinking of Draco Malfoy; he could see the boy's face in her head. She could see the boy who would go on to kill Albus Dumbledore, the boy who had tormented her in school. Why was she so eager to ensure he was born and protected? She cleared her throat and touched her napkin to her lips. "I think that if Lucius and Narcissa are very taken with one another, it might be wise to hold off writing up formal betrothal documents, but they may well wind up together. If you know what I mean."

"I think I do." Voldemort sighed. Sylvie Malfoy scoffed and threw up a hand.

"With all due respect, Madam Granger, I do not think you are qualified to speak about the betrothal of our only son."

Hermione's eyes went wide as she and Sylvie stared at one another across the table. Abraxas gulped at his wine and set his glass down, sawing into his steak, obviously made to feel very awkward. Voldemort dragged his fingertip over his water glass and advised,

"They're only thirteen years old, Abraxas. Give it two years. If they're fifteen and still in love, write up papers with Cygnus. There's no harm in holding off a contract just a little while longer, hmm? I don't want my friends fighting down the line. I do not want any potential enmity between you and Cygnus; you understand that I've got a vested interest in the two of you maintaining friendly relations."

"Yes. Of course, sir." Abraxas swallowed his bite of steak and sipped some water. He cracked his knuckles together, and Sylvie made a little huffing noise of protest. She said nothing else, though. Voldemort spoke lightly to Abraxas about Quidditch, but his own head was invaded by thoughts from Sylvie and Hermione. They did not like one another, he could feel. Hermione was thinking that Sylvie Malfoy was a haughty, imperious witch who thought she was better than everyone else. Sylvie Malfoy thought that Hermione Granger was some sort of enigmatic Mudblood invader with unnecessarily strong opinions.

So the witches would not be friends, at least for now, Voldemort thought. He pinched his lips as Abraxas recalled a recent Kestrels match to him. Voldemort would need to fix the situation between Hermione and Sylvie, to the best of his ability. If he was going to keep Hermione practically imprisoned in Malfoy Manor, she and the hostess couldn't despise one another. That wouldn't do.

And then there was the matter of Albus Dumbledore. Voldemort fully expected that Dumbledore would go tell his friends that he'd looked into the mind of a time traveller whose thoughts had revealed all sorts of treachery. True, he'd only had a few scant moments to glance through Hermione's head. It wouldn't have been enough to get a clear picture, even for a great Legilimens like Dumbledore. But Voldemort had only needed a few minutes at the masquerade to figure out that the mysterious witch was from the future. Surely Dumbledore could figure out the same thing in the little bit of time he'd had in Diagon Alley. Would he also see that Hermione had come back to save Lord Voldemort and change the course of history? Would Dumbledore now view Hermione as an enemy like he viewed Tom Riddle? Or would Dumbledore have sensed an ability to snatch Hermione away and use her as a weapon of his own?

In any case, Voldemort thought, it was very important to keep Hermione close. It was more important now to keep her closer than ever. She mustn't leave him. It was critical that she remain in Voldemort's use alone. And he had kissed her, and he had touched her. Had Dumbledore seen any of that? Had he -

"So, would you like to go to the match?"

Voldemort blinked. He gulped hard and stared at Abraxas Malfoy, who had just asked him a question. Voldemort mentally backtracked. The Kestrels vs the Harpies. Abraxas had asked him if he wanted to attend the match. Voldemort glanced to Hermione and said firmly,

"You'd have to stay here."

Hermione looked confused, and then she said gently,

"Mr Malfoy's just said that there are enough tickets for all four of us to go, My Lord. In a box."

"Oh." Voldemort frowned deeply. He carefully considered his options, and then he sighed. Should he take Hermione out in public? Would Dumbledore come after them? Would he send someone to hunt Hermione down? Would Dumbledore be as brazen as all that? How was Voldemort meant to build a socially-based movement if he didn't ever go anywhere? He shook his head and said to Hermione,

"You'll have to stay here. I'm sorry."

Her face fell a little as she seemed to realise that she was in a sort of prison here at Malfoy Manor, and she licked her lips, but then she gamely painted a little smile on her face and said warmly to Abraxas,

"Thank you for offering."

"I'll come," Voldemort said lightly. "Invite Avery or Nott or somebody. Fill the box with our old friends."

"Yes, sir," Abraxas said. By then the food had cleared away to make way for little chocolate cakes, and Hermione silently dug her fork into hers. She sipped her red wine and took another bite of cake. Suddenly Voldemort realised he was watching her eat. He was staring at her. He was gazing at her as she dragged her fork through her lips, as she carefully sipped from her wine glass.

There was a vibrant flash of lightning outside the dining room windows then, and an almost immediate crack of thunder. Everyone at the table jumped in their seats, and then the rushing sound of rain whooshed outside the glass. Voldemort felt Hermione's mind thudding with a persistent thought as the storm began to take form outside.

_I wonder if he wants me half as badly as I want him._

Voldemort cleared his throat quite roughly and murmured,

"Quite a storm."

"Yes. The _Prophet_ said it's meant to rain all night and all day tomorrow," Sylvie Malfoy said tightly. She set down her fork and said, "I'm off to take a long, luxurious bubble bath."

Voldemort curled up his lip, thinking that that was entirely too much information, but nodded and said,

"Goodnight, then, Sylvie."

"My dear." Sylvie rose and walked over to Abraxas' chair, kissing the top of his silky blond head and rubbing at his shoulders. "Come to bed soon."

Voldemort sneered a bit, turning his face away. Abraxas' cheeks went pink, but he quirked up his lips and whispered,

"Be there soon, love."

Sylvie stalked out of the dining room without another word, and Voldemort let out a very long breath. He glanced between Abraxas and Hermione and finally said,

"We could Apparate straight into the box, couldn't we, Malfoy?"

"Of course, sir," Abraxas affirmed. "If you've got security concerns, rest assured that Cygnus and I -"

"I'm more than capable of handling security concerns myself," Voldemort snapped, and he immediately realised that was true. He couldn't live his life like this, hiding Hermione away like a sheltered animal because they were afraid Dumbledore might show up. If he wanted to take her to a Quidditch match, he was damned well going to take her to a Quidditch match. He glanced to Hermione and asked,

"Kestrels fan, are you?"

She smirked and admitted, "My husband was always much more interested in Quidditch than I was, My Lord."

Her eyes went wide then, as if she knew she'd said entirely too much. A thought thrust forth in her head - Ron Weasley playing Keeper for Gryffindor, with Harry Potter as Seeker. Ron had always looked just a bit off in all the gear; he was gangly and awkward enough without all the leather padding and bulky robes. Hermione looked like she was panicking in the dining room as Voldemort chewed his lip and said smoothly to Abraxas,

"Madam Granger is a widow."

"I'm so very sorry to hear that," Abraxas said warmly. He was curious about the circumstances, Voldemort could tell. He wanted more information, but he wasn't going to get it. He was thinking that Hermione was achingly beautiful. He was thinking that somebody should marry that witch, now that she was available. Or, at least, someone ought to be shagging her. She was lovely and funny, Abraxas was thinking. His pale eyes flicked up and down Hermione's form as he nodded. Voldemort cleared his throat and said,

"We'll both be coming to the Quidditch match on Saturday. Thank you for the invitation. Hermione, may I walk you upstairs?"

_Walk me upstairs? Doesn't he want them to see me as more than his whore? Doesn't he want them to see me as his employee, as his weapon?_

"I'd like to discuss that tactic with you before we bid one another farewell for the evening," Voldemort said softly. Hermione nodded, rising from her chair. The wizards in the room rose, too, and Abraxas said to the two of them,

"Goodnight, then."

"Thank you for dinner, Mr Malfoy," Hermione said, and Voldemort felt attraction rolling off Abraxas Malfoy like a wave as he studied Hermione and said,

"Must go find Sylvie. Good evening."

He left the dining room, and Voldemort followed, trailed by Hermione. He led her toward the stairwell that went to the second floor, and he tried desperately to stay out of her head. He didn't mean to read her thoughts all the time; she pushed into his consciousness more than he intended for her to do. He walked up the stairs and down the corridor to her suite, pausing outside her door. He turned to face her, and when she stared up at him, he nodded and said quite firmly,

"Goodnight, then."

"Goodnight," Hermione whispered. She blinked. He struggled not to push into her thoughts. It would be so easy, he considered, just to feel what she was thinking right now. But instead he just reached for her cheekbone with his knuckle and stroked a little, bending down to plant a soft kiss on her lips.

"Goodnight."

"Please come inside," Hermione murmured onto his mouth. His breath hitched. His head spun. Had he heard her correctly? _Please come inside?_ He kissed her again, harder this time, and he finally incanted nonverbally, _Legilimens._

She was desperate for him. She'd been thinking about this all day; she'd been wondering if she'd be able to convince him to come into her rooms all day. They'd been interrupted by Sylvie Malfoy when Hermione had been grinding atop his lap, and it had felt so damned good to do that. He'd been kissing her neck, and she'd felt his erection beneath her, and he'd played the piano for her… he'd played the piano for her…

Suddenly Voldemort was wrenching open the door of Hermione's suite and dragging her inside, and once they were in, he wandlessly slammed the door shut and locked it. He pulled on her wrist and took her into the black and white bedroom, through a white double door. Hermione let out a little yelp of surprise, but from her mind he felt white-hot need. She was on fire for him, he could feel. A flame had been lit within her when he'd played piano for her, and it had never actually been extinguished. She'd been burning for him ever since then, and she was burning still.

"Please."

He whirled around at the sound of the word, and when he did, he saw that her eyes were welled heavily. She stood staring at him in her pretty red dress, her hair in a braided bun, and she shook her head. Lightning illuminated her face, and then thunder rumbled.

_Legilimens._

She didn't know what to do. This was Lord Voldemort. She'd destroyed his Horcruxes. She'd fought against him. She was married to Ron Weasley. But she wanted Voldemort badly - not because he was a handsome young man, but because he was a supremely powerful sorcerer. She wanted him because he had tasted like cake and firewhisky the first time he'd dared to kiss her. She wanted him because of the way he held her jaw sometimes, because of the way he spoke of his ambition, because of the way he could wandlessly and nonverbally perform magic others could only dream of doing. She wanted him because of the way he played the piano. She wanted him because he was intelligent, and strong, and powerful, and because he would win this time. She was his weapon here, and she craved him, and she wasn't sure what to do about that.

"Hermione."

He approached her and wrapped his arms around her. Her eyes fluttered shut as his fingers danced down her back, undoing her buttons one after the other. He moved swiftly, confidently. He was in charge here, but if she told him to stop, he would. He sniffed a little and kissed her forehead, murmuring against her skin,

"Your mind isn't like anybody else's mind. You know that?"

"How do you mean, Master?" Her own hands went to the hook and eye clasps down the front of his black robes, and as she worked at them, he informed her,

"You don't like playing Wizard's Chess, which I find amusing, because your mind is like the most brilliant chess player's. You're always six steps ahead, you know? You've always reached conclusions before anyone else even figures out anything's wrong."

"My Lord…" Hermione tipped her head back, and he bent to push his lips against hers. He brought her dress up over her head, and she wriggled out of it. She wore no bra owing to the cut of the dress, and he just gaped at her bared breasts. They were small but round and perfect, with pert pink nipples that peaked in the cool air. He dragged one thumb over a nipple and caressed the tissue of her breast with his fingers, running his other hand up and down the side of her slim stomach. Thunder rumbled in the distance, far beyond Malfoy Manor.

"Merlin's beard. You are…" Voldemort seethed a little through his teeth and tipped his head as he admitted, "I don't mean to get caught up in the cosmetic, you know, but -"

"I don't mind the compliment," she grinned. Voldemort stared straight into her eyes then, her wide honey-coloured eyes, and he felt a pulsing thought from her.

_Almost handsome._

It stung a little. It made his chest ache just a little bit, thinking of how beautiful she was and how ugly he was. He'd been very good-looking, once upon a time. He'd been younger, too, but it had been the Dark magic that had really done him in. He'd done this to himself. He'd brought the drooping eyelid, the smashed cheekbone, the chipped chin, the pale skin, and the scarred lips upon himself. The greying and receding hair he could mostly blame on his age. He pinched his mouth into a line and peeled off his outer robe, wondering what she'd think of him once she saw the rest of him. Would she care about the white lines criss-crossing his shoulders and chest? Would she care how scarred the magic had made him? She'd seen the one scar on his lip; would she mind the one that made it look like a sword had sliced open his bicep?

He gulped hard, his fingers shaking a little as he unbuttoned his black linen shirt. He pulled it off before he could make up an excuse to keep it on, and he tossed it away. He glared at Hermione, daring her to make a snide comment about him. He was lean and toned; that wasn't the problem. The dusting of hair on his stomach and chest was greying, but his muscles were taut. His scars looked like someone had taken hot blades to him, cutting into his skin in random spots. One was just over his heart. One was on his lower abdomen. One was on the top of his shoulder. And one was on his bicep. He blinked quickly as Hermione seemed to study what had happened to him. She finally raised her eyes to him and said softly,

"It must be a very draining process to create them."

"There's that chess player's mind," he said. His eyes burned, for some reason, as he remembered creating the Horcrux with Rowena Ravenclaw's diadem. He'd been lying for days in agonised pain as the sensation of someone driving hot spikes into his flesh had taken over. When he'd come to, he'd had these scars. He shrugged. "My face was mostly spared."

"They give you character, My Lord." Hermione smiled a little. "And, anyway, when I knew you, you were grey and bald with red eyes and no nose. So."

"Hmm." He nodded. "But you are very beautiful."

"I'm glad you think so." Hermione took a step toward him and put her hands on the waistband of his black linen trousers. She eyed him, and he knew what she wanted. Permission. He kissed her forehead, and she began to unbutton the trousers. He felt himself start to flush hard with anticipation, with want; he'd been soft up until now because he'd been so self-conscious. Now, with her fingers moving near him, the blood coursed into his member, and he whispered onto her skin,

"I'll play piano for you whenever you want me to."

"Oh." She raised her eyes, which welled again. "Really?"

"Mmm. Yes." He kissed her square on the mouth as her fingers pulled his cock out, and he grunted a little. She shoved at his trousers, and he worked them the rest of the way down. He stepped out of his dress shoes and pulled off his socks, trousers, and underwear, all the while kissing Hermione. He never let her go, and as soon as he could, he folded his cock up against her belly and stood with his hand between her shoulder blades. The room was briefly illuminated by the white flare of lightning, and then the rain seemed to pick up with the accompanying clap of thunder.

He needed her, he thought. He'd never needed a witch, not ever. He'd wanted a few. One or two had given him supreme carnal pleasure. But he'd never _needed_ a witch. Now he stood with his secret weapon, with one of the most brilliant minds he'd ever seen, with the time traveller who had once fought him but had now come to save him, and he needed her. He kissed her until his lips felt bruised, and when he pulled back, he whispered,

"Bed."

"Mmph." Hermione followed him and climbed up onto the bed with him. Along the way, she must have shucked her knickers, because by the time she lay on her back atop the black and white blankets, she was completely nude. Voldemort hovered above her and immediately reached between her legs, expecting to feel her dry there and to need to work her up. But she was soaking wet, flushed with excitement. She was throbbing with damp heat, and his eyes shut of their own accord as he let the feeling of that wash over him.

… _always needed a lubrication charm with Ron, but I don't think I will this time, because I…_

He ripped himself from her head, not even realising he'd been inside of her thoughts. His cheeks flushed hot with embarrassment; he felt for some reason like that had not been an idea he ought to have perceived. He opened his eyes and stared down at Hermione as he whispered,

"I'm going to touch you, because otherwise this is going to last half a minute."

"All right." She giggled a little, then sighed and squirmed as he deepened his touch. He made a V shape with his forefinger and middle finger, gliding them along her folds, and gently pressed at her clit with his thumb. He used his other hand to touch the rest of her body - first her breast, squeezing harder and harder until she squealed, then down her ribcage, stroking at her thigh for a while. Lightning flared outside the window, followed by a mighty thunderclap.

"My Lord," Hermione moaned, driving her head back against the pillow. Her fingers fisted at the blankets. Voldemort's face felt very hot indeed as he watched a scarlet flush work its way down in a web over her neck and chest. Her breasts heaved with deep breaths, her nipples at attention. Her fingers curled and cinched, and she bent her knees as her back arched up. All the while, Voldemort's hand moved. He dragged his fingers back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. He drew circles on her clit with his thumb. Finally he twisted his two fingers into her body and hooked them a little, and he could feel that she was positively soaked. She was leaking fluids all over his hand, and he panted as he drove his fingers in and out of her. He was careful not to pump too hard; she wouldn't like that, he thought. He stroked with long, smooth pulls instead. He moved his thumb around her clit in firm circles. She slapped hard at the blanket and hissed through clenched teeth,

"Oh, Merlin's beard. Oh, I'm going to…"

… _try not to think of the number of times I faked it with Ron and just enjoy this one real…_

Voldemort tore himself out of her head, desperate not to read her thoughts just now. He blinked madly as he gulped and stared down at her, watching her nipples peak so firmly they looked almost painful. Her back arched again, and she wrenched at the blankets, and then he felt the walls of her womanhood clenching around his fingers. She moaned desperately as she came, and then she was whispering,

"My Lord. My Lord. My Lord."

"Sorry, but I do need to be inside of you right this very moment," he huffed. Hermione yelped as she came down from her high and mumbled,

"Contraceptive charm!"

"Oh. Right. Erm…" Voldemort brushed his fingers along her lower abdomen and wandlessly incanted, "_Nongravidare Maxima._ There. That'll last you a month."

_Are we going to do this more than once?_ He could feel that from her before he could stop himself from peering. He cleared his throat, and he pushed her legs apart. He licked his lips and then hesitated. This seemed dull, he thought. She'd been lying on her back this whole time. He coughed a little and said,

"Here. Like this."

He lay down behind her, spooning her, and encouraged her to put her legs tightly together. He tilted her pelvis down a little to give himself access, and when he slid into her slick, incredibly tight entrance, he swore in Parseltongue on accident.

"_Hyathasssa nosssa thosss…"_

Voldemort wrenched his eyes shut and sheathed himself inside of Hermione. If his use of Parseltongue alarmed her, she didn't give any indication. Indeed, she turned her face just a little, glancing at him over her shoulder, and her eyelids were deeply hooded with satisfaction and arousal. Voldemort began to rock into Hermione, pulsing his pelvis against hers as he curled one arm around her body and squeeze at a breast. He toyed with her nipple and then urged her head to the side so he could kiss at her neck whilst he fucked her.

No. This wasn't fucking. He wasn't quite sure what this was, but it wasn't like the times he'd angrily rutted young witches from behind as a handsome Tom Riddle. This was different; he was a hideous old man with a beautiful and brilliant and very, very complicated witch. He had her wrapped in his arms and he was buried inside of her, cradling her against him as he pumped himself into her over and over. He bent her forward a little and sped up his thrusts, and Hermione whimpered. She liked this, he realised.

… _oh, my - if he doesn't stop that, I'm going to come again and I'm going to look like a complete harlot…_

"Hermione." He groaned, rubbing at her back as he rocked his hips against hers. She contracted herself more tightly into a ball to deepen his thrusts, and soon he was pushing himself vigorously into her as he held her shoulders for purchase. He ran one hand down her arm and clutched at her fingers, squeezing them as he whispered,

"I can't… it's too much…"

"Mmm… _Mmph!_ Master!" Hermione arched back, into his arms, and his hand clamped around her breast again. She tossed her head back, and he caught her in a kiss. He felt little flutters around his cock and realised she was having a second climax. _Legilimens, _he incanted rather desperately, and in her mind he read scarlet passion. She was mad for him. She was wildly hot-blooded over him. For some reason, the fact that she was this attracted to him sent him hurtling over an unseen edge, and Voldemort thrust his hips roughly five or six more times before burrowing himself to the hilt and crushing her mouth until their teeth clacked. He compressed her breast until she squealed against his lips, and then he spilled himself inside of her. His come pumped in spurts, filling her and then leaking back out in a little river on their skin.

He kept kissing her, for some reason, after his climax abated. She rolled to face him, and he pulled her against him and kissed her again. She curled her leg over his hips and snared her arm around his scarred chest, and still he kissed her. Finally, _finally, _his lips felt sore and bruised and he could barely breathe, so he pulled back.

_Dizzy. Feel like I'm going to faint. I have never in my life done anything remotely approaching that. Why didn't anyone tell me sex could be anything like that? Why have I spent the last seven years of my life having… well, having what I was having instead of that? That was… that was…_

Voldemort tried to pull away. He shut his eyes and told himself that the thoughts she was having right now were a crazed inner monologue that belonged to her, that he ought not be eavesdropping. He slid out of her head and was met with the sound of the thunderstorm outside the bedroom window.

"I should go," Voldemort said suddenly. This felt very intimate, lying here all cuddled up with her in her bed whilst a thunderstorm raged outside. She pushed herself up onto an elbow and gazed at him, and he knew what she was thinking without even peering into her thoughts. Was she his whore? Did he view her like that?

"You're not a whore, Hermione," he snapped. "You are a weapon."

"Yes, Master." She watched him as he moved quickly to pull on his assorted bits of clothing, and once he was buckling up his outer robe, he came back over to her bed and bent to kiss her forehead.

"You're a weapon," he repeated, "and you are a chess player. Your mind isn't like anybody else's. You know that, and I know that, and now Dumbledore knows that. But you're here to fight for me, aren't you?"

She stared for a half second and blinked. "Yes."

He tipped his head and stood. "Then it's Quidditch this weekend, because Albus Dumbledore doesn't tell me what I can and can not do. Goodnight, Hermione."

"Goodnight, My Lord," Hermione said, as Voldemort picked his wand up off the ground and stalked from her rooms.

**Author's Note: Whew! They finally **_**did it.**_ **And apparently he's way better than Ron. (Sorry, Ron.) But is Quidditch really the best idea? Hmm. Raise your hand if you still hate Sylvie! Many, many thanks for reading and reviewing.**


	12. Minds

She found him in the violet parlour. She followed the sound of the piano, and she found him.

She'd thought he'd be in his office, but when she'd gone there and knocked, there had been no answer. Then she'd heard it - tinkling high notes accented by a thundering rush of low chords. He was playing the piano. Hermione had blinked a few times outside his office and walked down the corridor toward the violet parlour, and once she'd reached it, she'd stood in the doorway and just watched for a long moment.

He was swaying a bit as he played, his left hand stretched into chords and his right hand's fingers flying around with impossible speed. Then his two hands began to play percussive chords together as the piece transitioned into a brisk march. His fingers pitter-pattered all around as he provided the drumbeat with the low notes, and then, after a long while, his hands slid from the keys altogether and he glanced up.

"Morning," he said quietly. Hermione let out a shaking breath and shook her head.

"No, don't stop," she insisted. He smirked a little and put his right hand back on the piano. He began playing something else; this was in a different key from the piece he'd been playing before. This was something minor, a lonely dirge. He depressed his thumb and then stretched out his pinky into a high note, and his left hand thrummed a few mournful chords. It was a beautiful piece that he was playing now - simple, sad, and lovely. Hermione stepped closer to the piano and whispered,

"Such talent you've got, Master."

Somehow, it didn't feel wrong at all to speak to him like that. For the first time since coming here, she didn't feel like she was betraying anyone in speaking to Lord Voldemort with words like that. She didn't feel like she was breaking anyone's heart by being attracted to him, or by thinking his piano playing was wonderful. Ron was gone, and Harry was gone, and Ginny was gone. The Albus Dumbledore who was here presented a danger, didn't he? Wasn't her entire lived existence so very far away?

"Hermione, your mind is somewhere else," Voldemort chided her, his fingers working down the keys in a cascading scale. He played low chords with two hands, and he looked up at Hermione. "You're wondering whether you're betraying anybody. I assure you that you are not. Simply by having come here, you've already altered the future. The world you left almost certainly no longer exists in the form you knew it. In any case, you left it because it was deeply flawed and you wanted to change things. Here you are… changing things."

"Yes, Master." Hermione strode up behind him and instinctively put her hands on his shoulders. It was an affectionate move, she knew, and probably far too intimate for the two of them. But if he minded, he didn't give any indication. Instead, he just kept on playing the piano until he finished his dirge of a piece with a few more chords. He slowly stood and turned around to face Hermione, and he took her cheeks in his hands.

"There's so very much I wish to teach you," he murmured. "If anyone could learn, it's you."

"Teach me?" Hermione felt her eyes go wide. What did he want to teach her? Voldemort pursed his lips and said,

"I'd like to begin by teaching you Occlumency. I have every confidence now that you'll freely share information with me when I ask it of you. I don't need Legilimency to force my way into your mind. Dumbledore, on the other hand…"

"You'd like me to defend my mind against Albus Dumbledore," Hermione nodded. She sighed. "When do we begin studies in Occlumency, then, My Lord?"

Half his mouth curled up, and he held out one hand. The door slowly shut and clicked to lock, and he tipped his head. "Right now."

Hermione followed him as he walked over to the table where they'd taken a few meals together. He wandlessly pushed out her chair for her, and she sat. She was nervous as he brought her chair in. What was he going to find in her head as he taught her this skill? Surely this was going to make her terribly vulnerable, studying under him like this. Wouldn't he discover that they were enemies?

Or, at least, they had been enemies. But he already knew that much. He could uncover the real reason why she'd come here, Hermione supposed. She gulped.

"Right." Voldemort sniffed as he sat opposite her and folded his hands on the table. "Occlumency is the skill of repelling Legilimency. In its simplest form, this means putting up a wall of blankness to repel invasion. In a more complicated variation, it requires the practitioner to replace memories or thoughts to confuse or distract the Legilimens."

Hermione frowned. Wasn't that rather what she'd already been doing? She'd been pushing forth thoughts for him to find. She'd dreamed up false memories and altered old ones. Perhaps she'd already practised a bit of Occlumency without realising it.

"I would like for you to first become aware of what emotion you experience when a thought or memory is brought forward," Voldemort said patiently. He was an awfully good teacher, Hermione thought. Snape had been a terrible Occlumency teacher to Harry, but Voldemort was doing a very good job of teaching her.

"So if you pull up a memory of my parents and I experience melancholy, I acknowledge it," she said, and he nodded tightly. It was still raining, so the diffuse light in the room made the space a bit dark. His face was shadowy as he examined her and said,

"Once you feel the emotion, try to cast it aside. Try to make your mind as vacuous and blank as you possibly can. Imagine a star full of skies, an ocean without end, a forest full of trees. Endlessness."

Hermione nodded. Voldemort pulled out his wand, which made Hermione awfully nervous since he did so much magic without the instrument. He aimed it directly at her and incanted aloud,

"_Legilimens._"

She distantly wondered why he'd used a verbal spell with a wand, but then she got her answer. The force of his invasion was so strong that she almost buckled over at the table. He was fully inside her head, she realised. He was flicking through her thoughts as though they were pages in a book. Visuals went whirring by behind her eyelids, playing out like clips of a film.

_Hermione, Ron, and Harry were drinking Butterbeers at the Three Broomsticks on a snowy day…_

_It was the summer holidays, and Hermione's mother was making lemonade in the kitchen whilst Hermione and her father played a game of cards in the garden._

_People were screaming and crying that Cedric Diggory was dead. Harry was exclaiming that Voldemort was back._

_Hermione and Ron were in the Chamber of Secrets, having just destroyed a Horcrux. _

_Ron was yelling at Hermione that it wasn't his bloody fault that she couldn't get pregnant, so she needed to stop complaining about the entire thing and just be patient about it all._

Hermione seethed through her teeth and felt her eyes burn. A wicked sense of pain came over her at that last memory. Voldemort allowed himself to dwell upon it. Hermione tried not to let him see. She tried to mentally push him away, but Voldemort was much too strong. Hermione gripped the arms of her chair as the memory played out in her head.

Pain.

'_Look, 'Mione, not every witch is my mother, one baby right after the other, so -'_

'_Now you're going to rub it in my face that your mother had so many children?' Hermione spat._

_Ron looked incredulous 'We are not going to have a horde of babies!'_

'_One would be nice!' Hermione exclaimed. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. 'Just one would be nice.'_

'_Give it some damned time, Hermione. For Merlin's sake. There's only so much I can do.'_

'_I'm not blaming you, Ronald! I'm just sad. And hurt! I'm allowed to feel things about this! I'm allowed to be hurt!' Hermione tore her cloak off the hook by the door and put it on._

'_Where are you going?' Ron snapped._

'_To the Pepper Pot,' Hermione sniped back. 'We're all out of food, and if you'd like dinner tonight, we need some more.'_

Hermione pushed and shoved inside her head as hard as she could. She imagined a mountain, snowy and still. She imagined standing atop that mountain. She imagined wind blowing around her on a dark and rainy night. She imagined a cold river that ran nowhere. She shut her eyes tightly. Pain. She'd felt pain. She tore that pain into shreds and then opened her eyes, and when she did, Voldemort was staring at her with a very intense expression written upon his dark gaze.

Hermione huffed. She blinked through tears and whispered, "That was only six weeks ago or so. It still stings."

"I see. Well, you did a damned good job of controlling the emotion it made you experience." Voldemort tipped his chin up. "You almost pushed me out."

"Almost isn't good enough for me," Hermione said firmly.

"No. I expect that _almost_ is never quite good enough for Hermione Granger." Voldemort dragged his finger in a circle on the table and said, "Let's go again. I'll settle on something happier this time."

Hermione felt numb as she nodded and mumbled, "Yes, Master."

"Trick me. Fool me," he commanded her. "This time, once you've got ahold of the emotion, replace the memory with something else. Anything else; the point is for you to replace what I'm seeing."

"Yes, My Lord." Hermione swallowed hard. He picked his wand up and aimed it at her again, his voice almost gentle as he incanted,

"_Legilimens._"

This time, when the memories went flittering by, Hermione steeled herself against what they made her feel. Joy, alarm, trepidation, rage. She pushed all of those thoughts away and settled on an icy grey blankness even as he pulled out a few choice images.

_Hermione was dancing with Viktor Krum at the Yule Ball._

_Hermione's paternal great-grandmother had died, and she'd gone to the funeral as a seven-year-old._

_She was standing with her back to the bathroom door as she began to spin the One-Way Time-Turner, on her way back in time to change what had happened with Lord Voldemort._

Hermione ripped Voldemort away from that memory. She tore him out of the image of her coming back in time. She replaced the image with blankness for a moment, with empty black nothingness, and then she thrust forward the first thing that came into her head.

'_You should consider kissing him back.' Voldemort dared to kiss Hermione, and she reached for his robes. Her head spun as she realised that The Dark Lord himself had just kissed her._

Voldemort pulled out of Hermione's head so suddenly then that she felt the whooshing sensation in her ears. She blinked at him and whispered,

"Was that right, Master?"

He stared right at her and nodded. He looked somewhat amazed, and he mused, "No, your mind doesn't work like anybody else's, does it?"

"I do my best, Master." Hermione quirked up her lips, and Voldemort sighed.

"I think we'll get your head sealed up well against Albus Dumbledore. Let's keep working."

* * *

"Ready to go?" Voldemort asked as Hermione stood outside his office. She adjusted her warm outer cloak and pulled on her leather gloves.

"Ready," she affirmed. "I confess that I don't know much about the Harpies or the Kestrels, but I shall do my best to look enthusiastic."

Voldemort came out into the corridor, wearing his own elegant waffle-weave cloak. He pulled his door shut and led Hermione down the corridor. They walked into the wood-paneled parlour a few doors down from Voldemort's office, and inside, Hermione saw Sylvie and Abraxas Malfoy already waiting. Sylvie looked very beautiful in emerald velvet robes with golden tassels. Hermione smirked a bit and demanded,

"Green and gold. The colours of both Holyhead and Kenmare. Which team are you cheering for, Sylvie?"

"Whichever team is winning," Sylvie teased. She sniffed and said, "The Kestrels, of course. Abraxas has been a fan since he was a boy."

"Perhaps I'll cheer for the Harpies," Hermione said lightly. "Witches cheering on witches, you know."

"Yes, do cheer for the opposition," sneered Sylvie.

"Ladies," Abraxas said smoothly. "Do be kind to one another. We're all under one roof, hmm? All friends here."

"But of course!" Sylvie looked shocked at her husband's words. She whirled toward him and glared. Voldemort was flicking his eyes between Abraxas and Hermione. She noticed that he was staring at Abraxas, and that Abraxas was studying Hermione. Everyone seemed to be glaring at someone else. Hermione sighed and said,

"I'll cheer for the Kestrels, of course."

"Well, let's go," Abraxas said. "If we don't hurry, we'll miss the start of the match."

Voldemort strode up to Hermione and slid his hand through hers, surprising her. She let him take her by Side-Along Apparition, and as they disappeared from the parlour in a pinching, whirling crack, she felt just a little sick. But then they came to, and Hermione stumbled over a leather chair in the raised box where they had landed. Voldemort caught her arm, and Hermione immediately noticed that Cygnus Black III and Druella Black were already seated in the box.

"Oh, good day, sir!" greeted Cygnus, standing and grinning. Voldemort nodded and clapped Cygnus on the forearm. He nodded to Druella. Hermione felt bile rise in her throat as she realised that these were Bellatrix Lestrange's parents. She shoved away that thought, wrenching aside the notion that Bellatrix was an enemy. She replaced the thought with the idea that she was Voldemort's ally. She was here to help him win. She needed him to feel friendliness from her right now.

"Ah! Nott and Avery. Good to see you," greeted Abraxas Malfoy as two more wizards popped into the box. The old friends began chatting for a few moments, and Hermione gazed out upon the Quidditch pitch. She watched crowds filling the stands, almost everyone in various shades of green and gold.

"Madam Granger?"

Hermione turned, and Abraxas Malfoy was smiling at her a little. She blinked. Sylvie was talking with Druella Black, Hermione could see. Abraxas asked nervously,

"Can I fetch you a drink?"

Hermione scowled. Why was Abraxas Malfoy asking about getting her a drink? That seemed… odd. Awkward. She opened her mouth and just stared at him for a moment, unable to read his pale and sparkling eyes. Suddenly Voldemort whirled away from his conversation with Nott and Avery, and he asked quite firmly,

"Hermione, would you prefer a warm Butterbeer or a mulled wine?"

Hermione flicked her eyes to Voldemort and said meaningfully, "A warm Butterbeer would be excellent, My Lord. But I can go get my own drink."

"I'd prefer if you stay up here," he said, leaving no room for debate. "Abraxas, tell them to send up drinks. Two warm Butterbeers for Hermione and myself."

"Yes, sir." Abraxas' cheeks pinked, and he started to walk out of the box. But Sylvie called after him,

"I'd like a mulled wine."

"Yes. Of course," Abraxas nodded. He swept through the curtain and pattered down the stairs. Voldemort gestured to Hermione and said pointedly to Nott and Avery,

"She's an absolutely brilliant mind, as I was just telling you. The most brilliant mind I've ever known."

"My Lord," Hermione murmured, lowering her face. She felt embarrassed, but she was also rather proud. She remembered the sensation, in her sixth year, of being asked to join the Slug Club because she had been the brightest witch at Hogwarts. It had been the first time anyone had truly made her feel valued for her mind. Well, that and the time she'd been given a Time-Turner in her third year to take more classes. Now she'd been given a Time-Turner to change history because she'd been viewed as the only one capable of doing so. She wasn't worthless; she was intelligent and powerful, wasn't she?

"Hermione is an immensely powerful witch, not to be underestimated," Voldemort said almost sharply. Cygnus and Druella looked fascinated, and Nott and Avery looked awed. Sylvie Malfoy tipped her chin up and folded her arms over her chest. Hermione met Voldemort's eyes and smiled a little.

"I have the world's very best mentor," she insisted. "I am the student, the acolyte of the man who will become the most significant sorcerer of all time."

"Do you believe that, Hermione?" Voldemort curled up his lips. Hermione nodded and glanced around the box.

"I have seen it," she said, wondering if she was giving away too much. But then she thought something. They'd all think she was a Seer. They'd think she'd had visions, that she possessed the gift of sight. They'd think she had other mysterious gifts. But they wouldn't think she was a time traveller, not if she played her cards right. She licked her lips and said, "The wizard before you is the most powerful Dark wizard to ever live. Yes. More powerful than Gellert Grindelwald. You would all do well to keep yourselves alongside him."

"High praise from a Muggle-born," Sylvie Malfoy said, "for a man who so highly values the purity of our blood."

Hermione's cheeks went hot. She scowled at Sylvie. Suddenly the crowd roared, and Hermione turned around to see that the teams were being introduced out on the pitch. She turned her attention to the match then, as the Quaffles, Bludgers, and Golden Snitch were released. The match struck into high gear. Abraxas came back, and soon enough a serving witch arrived with the drinks. Hermione held her warm Butterbeer and sipped at it as Voldemort stood silently beside her. Kenmare scored, and as the crowd cheered, Voldemort leaned down and murmured into her ear,

"That was quite a little speech you gave."

"The sooner you gain power, the more likely you are to avoid war," Hermione replied, "Master."

"Abraxas is hungry for you," he told her. Hermione choked a little laugh into her Butterbeer, but she felt Voldemort's left hand snare around her waist and pull her closer. She was breathless then. Possessive. He was being possessive. Abraxas Malfoy had lusted after her, and now Voldemort was holding her close by her waist. He sipped at his Butterbeer as though it was nothing at all to hold her in public.

And they wouldn't think she was his whore, Hermione thought. After all, Voldemort had told them all that Hermione was a very powerful witch with a very impressive mind. He'd bragged about her being a worthy soldier for him. Let them see her in his arms, pulled against him. Hermione actually snuggled up against him, burrowing her head against his chest. Kenmare scored again, and everyone in the box went up in cheers. Suddenly a Bludger knocked a Harpies Chaser from her broom, and as she fell, people gasped. She stood when she fell, though, seemingly unharmed, and people cheered again.

"He's got the Snitch! McGivney's got the Snitch!" cried an Amplified voice. The Kestrels Seeker came rushing back through the pitch, his arm triumphantly outstretched. "Kenmare wins the match!"

"Oh, it's over as soon as that?" complained Sylvie Malfoy.

"We won, Sylvie!" Abraxas snapped. "No complaints!"

Avery, Nott, and the Blacks were cheering happily. Voldemort turned around and congratulated his friends on the victory of their side, and then he said to Hermione,

"This was a success. Let's get back to Malfoy Manor now."

"Yes, My Lord." Hermione nodded. She flicked her eyes to Sylvie Malfoy, who was glaring at her husband. Abraxas Malfoy was staring right at Hermione, and she knew now why he looked at her the way he did. He was attracted to her. Well, what was she meant to do about that? She was staying at Malfoy Manor. Suddenly Abraxas vibrated and stood up very straight. Hermione glanced to Voldemort, who was looking right at Abraxas, and she knew what was going on. A Confundus Charm. Voldemort had wandlessly Confounded Abraxas Malfoy.

"Lovely," said Abraxas, turning to Sylvie Malfoy. He took her face in his hands and kissed her square on the lips. Sylvie squealed in surprise but sank into the kiss. She pulled away after a moment, and Abraxas smiled at his wife as he said, "Let's go home and celebrate the win."

"Abraxas!" Sylvie giggled, her face going a little red. She and Abraxas Disapparated, holding hands. Hermione looked up at Voldemort and narrowed her eyes at him, smirking.

"I saw that," she told him. He shrugged.

"I was more than a little tired of his thoughts of you," Voldemort said softly. "Let's go. We've got our own celebrating to do. And I meant what I said."

"What you said," Hermione repeated, as Nott and Avery waved farewell and then Disapparated. Cygnus Black III and Druella had already left, and now Voldemort and Hermione were the last ones in the box. He stared down at her and told her,

"I told them all that you were an immensely powerful witch, not to be underestimated. I meant that," he said. "I told them that you had a brilliant mind. I meant that."

_You played the piano for me,_ Hermione thought rather desperately. _You taught me Occlumency, and you are going to change the world. You are…_

"Say it." Voldemort cupped Hermione's jaw and bent, brushing his lips against Hermione's. "Tell me."

"You're the most powerful wizard who's ever lived," Hermione mumbled. Voldemort kissed her more firmly, his arms snaring around her. He Disapparated then, taking her with him, kissing her through the void, his lips still locked onto hers as they reappeared in his suite.

**Author's Note: Just a heads-up that I won't be updating tomorrow because I am going to dinner at the Ritz-Carlton and out to a play (woo-hoo, so fancy). I will definitely update on Wednesday. Thanks for your patience.**

**I hate to complain about a lack of reviews, but given how many people I can see are reading this, this story really has barely any feedback. As a writer, it's a little frustrating to see so many people reading the story and not hear back from readers. If you get just a quick moment, I would really appreciate you dropping me a little note letting me know your thoughts on the story. Thanks so very much.**


	13. Emerald Envy

_Dear Odysseus,_

_She is here. You were right, all those years ago. I have searched her mind for evidence of treachery. She was not an Occlumens until I taught her to be one. Her mind showed me a letter from you in her future, compelling her to come back in time and change my course of action. She was told to come back here so that I might win, so that I would be victorious. She is Muggle-born, and she fought against me, but she is…_

_Odysseus, she is glorious._

_Why didn't you tell me she would be glorious?_

_Come to England. I am at Malfoy Manor in Wiltshire, though it seems you are aware of that. Meet with me. I ask it of you as I seek clarification on a few matters. I look forward to seeing you again after all these years._

_I think you know why I won't sign this letter as Tom Riddle._

_Cordially,_

_Lord Voldemort_

He signed his name with a flourish, crossing the T and then waiting for the ink to dry. He folded the letter into thirds and inserted it into an envelope, then shut the envelope. He used his wand to light the wick on his black sealing wax, and he held it over the envelope as the melting wax drizzled down into a pool. He picked up his heavy brass seal with the Dark Mark he'd designed as his own personal signet. He pressed it to the sealing wax, and he turned the envelope over. He dipped his quill into his ink and wrote,

_Odysseus Siegel_

_14 Uhrwerkstrasse, Berlin_

Then he set the letter aside and pulled out another sheet of parchment. He dipped his quill again and began writing,

_Dear Mr Rookwood,_

_I require information about the Potter family. I am aware that Fleamont and Euphemia Potter, are older parents and that their son James is their only child. I know they live in a wealthy estate in Kent. I require more details about Fleamont's hobbies and pastimes, as well as how Euphemia spends her days. Is the boy, James, educated at home? I know, Augustus, that your father and Fleamont Potter were school friends. Write to me with as much information as you have about the Potters. Maintain secrecy in this matter; it is of utmost importance that I -_

He stopped then, staring down at the letter he'd been writing to Augustus Rookwood. He realised that he couldn't outsource any of this knowledge-gathering. Once he'd eliminated James Potter, it couldn't be traced back to him, or he'd go to Azkaban for murder. He'd have to make it look accidental. Having Rookwood gather information for him just before the boy went missing was completely foolhardy. No. Voldemort would have to get what he needed himself. He pinched his lips and balled up the letter, Vanishing it into thin air. He pulled on the heavy rope beside his desk, and a moment later, with a _crack,_ Dobby the House-Elf appeared in his office. Voldemort picked up the sealed letter on his desk and Banished the envelope to the elf.

"Send this letter off from the Owlery," he commanded Dobby. "It's going to Odysseus Siegel in Berlin, so be sure to send a very good bird."

"Yes, sir." Dobby Disapparated, taking the letter with him. Voldemort huffed a breath and considered when he'd be able to kill James Potter. There was no immediate rush; the boy wouldn't even be going to Hogwarts for another few years. But he'd like to do it sooner rather than later, Voldemort thought. Now that he knew that eliminating James Potter meant eliminating the threat of Harry Potter himself, he wanted to act. He wondered distantly how Hermione would take the news that James Potter had been killed. She'd probably be relieved, he thought. It would be a sign that fewer people would suffer and die, and it would be a step towards Voldemort's victory. And wasn't all of that what Hermione wanted?

There was knocking on the door of Voldemort's office, and he found himself wondering if Hermione had gotten bored reading in the library. He cleared his throat and barked,

"Enter."

The door opened, and Abraxas and Sylvie Malfoy came walking in together. Sylvie trailed behind Abraxas, looking very done up in aubergine robes. She reached for Abraxas' hand as they moved into Voldemort's office. Voldemort pushed into Abraxas' mind and sensed that Sylvie had had a long conversation with Abraxas about Hermione. She'd scolded Abraxas for staring at the younger witch, for letting his gaze linger too long. Now Sylvie was being protective over her territory, holding her husband's hand where she stood before Lord Voldemort.

"I'm afraid we've come with sorrowful news, sir," Abraxas Malfoy said. "Irma Black has suffered an attack of the heart. They tried to save her at St Mungo's, but she's passed away."

"Irma Black." Voldemort raised his eyebrows. "She wasn't even seventy, was she? Gone far too soon."

"A true paragon of Pureblood virtue," Sylvie said. "My heart breaks for Cygnus and Walburga."

"And for dear little Narcissa, our Lucius' little love," Abraxas cooed. "She'll be coming home from Hogwarts for the funeral, along with Andromeda and Bellatrix. And, of course, Walburga's boys will come. Sirius and Regulus."

Voldemort felt cold. Regulus Black, the boy who would steal his Horcrux and replace it with a decoy. He chewed his lip and nodded.

"When is the funeral?"

"It's on Saturday, at Grimmauld Place," said Abraxas. "The family is having a private interment, and then the reception's at the house."

"Yes. Of course. Well, Hermione and I will be there." Voldemort folded his hands on the table. Sylvie Malfoy looked utterly scandalised. She scoffed.

"You mean to bring a Muggle-born to the funeral of a witch like Irma Black?" she asked incredulously. "What sort of offence to the family do you -"

"Now, now, Sylvie." Abraxas patted his wife's arm. "Everyone in our community has incredible respect for Lord… for the man before you. If he wants to bring the witch who is his weapon with him to a funeral, that is his right."

Sylvie's cheeks flushed red. "It is not correct," she insisted. "That girl should not be there."

"Opinion duly noted, Sylvie," Voldemort said with a little smile. "Thank you."

* * *

"Cygnus. I am so very sorry for the loss of your mother," said Voldemort, plucking two glasses of Elf-made wine from a passing tray and handing one to Hermione. She murmured her thanks. Cygnus' face fell as he bowed a little in the large parlour of the house at Grimmauld Place.

"Thank you so very much for coming, sir," he said. "And Madam Granger. How good to see you."

"So sorry, Mr Black," Hermione said, but she seemed distracted. She was staring across the room at wild-haired Bellatrix Black, who stood sipping at her own glass of wine and gazing straight at Voldemort.

_Legilimens,_ Voldemort thought, and he pushed into Bellatrix's head.

_He is the most wonderful, magnificent human on the face of the planet. If I never do anything but serve him, I'll die happy. All I want is to kiss his feet. I wonder what he smells like. I wonder if I could ever convince him to touch me, if I could ever convince him to -_

Voldemort wrenched himself out of Bellatrix's head and frowned. He put his hand to the small of Hermione's back and said to Cygnus Black III,

"I hope you're taking a few days off of work."

"I am. Just a little respite," Cygnus affirmed. "It's good having the girls home for just a little while through this."

"Well. We won't keep you," Voldemort said, and he nodded. He led Hermione away by her back, and he noticed that she was staring straight at the cluster of Black sisters. Her mind was shut off to him, he realised. She had a wall up; he couldn't feel anything from her. He wondered what she was thinking. Was she thinking about Draco Malfoy, looking at his mother Narcissa? Was she thinking about the way Bellatrix had carved the word _Mudblood_ into her skin? Was she pondering how Andromeda Black had married a Muggle-born and had been disowned by her family? He couldn't tell. Her mind was utterly empty. Her Occlumency was strong and powerful.

"Shall we go say hello?" he asked her quietly. He looked down, and Hermione stared up at him with wide, welled eyes. She did not want to talk to Bellatrix, he could tell. He did not want to talk to Narcissa Black. But he knew they needed to do so. He needed to see whether or not Hermione could demonstrate true loyalty to him even among the people she had once considered her truest enemies. He guided her toward the gaggle of Black sisters, and Bellatrix awkwardly curtsied a little as they approached. Lucius Malfoy, who was standing near Narcissa, bowed his head.

"Sir!" Lucius bellowed, just a little too enthusiastically. "We have not seen one another since I left for the Hogwarts Express. How has your autumn been?"

Voldemort narrowed his eyes and smirked. From what Hermione had shown him in her memories, Lucius Malfoy would grow to become a simpering sycophant, pliable and desperate for attention and approval. Voldemort reached for the boy's forearm and said firmly,

"Your mother and father are deeply hospitable, and your family's loyalty will not be soon forgotten, Mr Malfoy. How is school?"

"School is… dull," Lucius intoned, rolling his eyes a little. "Cissy's presence makes it bearable."

"Oh, Lucius," Narcissa giggled a bit, and Hermione choked out a little sound from beside Voldemort. He licked his lips and said,

"Friends. Allow me to introduce Madam Hermione Granger. She is, shall we say, my most treasured associate at this time. New to our circle, and very valuable. Spend ten minutes conversing with her, and you'll see why I've become utterly impressed by her capabilities."

"Quite the introduction, My Lord," Hermione muttered. He slid his hand around her waist and pulled her a little closer. Bellatrix noticed. Her mind flared with emerald envy, and her wide dark eyes glinted. She curled up her lips as her thoughts went into a frenzied whirl.

_Granger! Mudblood name. Daddy wrote and said he had a Mudblood weapon; is this the weapon? He wants her. He's holding her. But she isn't even pretty, and she's filthy, and - oh, it makes my blood boil just thinking about the two of them -_

Voldemort quirked up half his mouth and realised he was on thin ice. If he pushed Bellatrix away, he risked alienating a very valuable soldier. He needed her to stay cloying, to stay loyal. He needed Bellatrix to crave him. He released Hermione's waist and stepped over toward Bellatrix. He reached for her hand and took it in his, and he brought her knuckles to his lips. He kissed her fingers and then hovered over her and asked,

"How's school going for _you,_ Bella?"

She was breathless then, he could feel. Her heart was pounding. Her mind was skittering around like a billywig in flight. She finally settled on two words.

"It's fine."

"Just fine?" Voldemort tipped his head and lowered her hand. Bellatrix mumbled,

"Slughorn's Potions lessons are a bore. Other than that, it's just fine."

"I trust you'll be a good friend of mine once you leave school, Bella," Voldemort purred. Bellatrix grinned and nodded. Voldemort took a step back from her and then nodded at the little crowd of Hogwarts students before him. "Good day to you all. My condolences. Hermione, step outside with me for a moment, will you?"

"Yes, all right," Hermione grumbled. She followed him as he walked away from the crowd, as he went out into the corridor and approached the stairs. He did not speak as he climbed the stairs and went down the narrow corridor on the first floor. He went into the first room on his left, which appeared to be a library, and he waited until Hermione followed him in. He shut the door behind her and cleared his throat. She stared blankly at the bookshelves and blinked.

"You understand why I had to do that," he said. "Why I had to give Bellatrix something like that. I was in her head; she was sick with envy whilst I had my arm around you and whilst I spoke so highly of you. She was spitting venom in her mind because I was possessive of you."

Hermione stared up at him and said, "You don't belong to me. Master."

He tried to work past the knot in his throat, and he whispered, "No, I suppose I don't."

"So it wouldn't do to be jealous," Hermione insisted. Once more he tried to push into her thoughts, just a little, but he was met with a wall of resistance so firm and mighty that he knew he'd have to fight to tear past it at all. He cleared his throat and said,

"I ought to tell you that I intend on eliminating James Potter."

Hermione's eyes flashed, and he sensed a red flare in her head. But it quickly settled, and she blinked a few times before she said,

"You will do what you need to do to protect us all. What you need to do to win."

"And that's what you want," he confirmed. "You want me to win."

"I was sent back in time because the experience I lived was deeply flawed," Hermione told him. "The wrong people died. The wrong people suffered. The wrong people won. The wrong people lost. I was sent back in time by O.S. and friends because -"

"Odysseus Siegel." Voldemort took a deep breath. Hermione's mouth fell open, and she shook her head.

"I'm sorry; who?"

"O.S. is Odysseus Siegel," Voldemort told her. "He's the one that made your Time-Turner. He's the one that sent you back to me."

Hermione's eyes rimmed red at once, and her lips trembled. "How do you know that?"

"Because, years ago, he told me that you were coming," Voldemort informed her. "Well. He said that someone was coming, and that when she came, I ought to listen to her, because she would do well for me. I wrote to him, just a few days ago, to see if he'll come to England to meet with us. I want to know if he's been jumping around in time. I want to know what he knows."

Hermione nodded. She gazed up at Voldemort as something seemed to settle over her. Suddenly she seemed deeply at peace. Her eyes were almost glassy, and she'd stopped shaking. She took a very long breath and said,

"I'm here to change what happens, My Lord. Of course I am not going to be jealous of you talking to Bellatrix, because I… I…"

She approached him, putting her hands on his chest and touching her lips to the front of his black brocade robes. She hummed onto him,

"You may not belong to me, but I think I might belong to you."

"Hermione." Voldemort started to push her toward a bookshelf. She backed up until she hit the shelf, and then she gasped as he tipped her head up and bent down. He crushed her mouth with a kiss and pushed his tongue between her lips, dragging it around the roof of her mouth. He suckled on her bottom lip and stroked at her jaw with one hand and her ribcage with the other. He finally pulled his lips from hers and murmured onto her mouth,

"Do you honestly think I would want that maniacal little child instead of you?"

"I don't know," Hermione admitted, "but it would be your -"

"She's not a chess player like you," Voldemort interrupted. Hermione laughed a little and whispered,

"I don't actually like chess."

"You know damned well what I mean." Voldemort kissed her again and then pushed her face aside, dragging his lips up her jaw. He put his mouth beside her ear and whispered, "I have no idea what you are thinking right now because your Occlumency is so strong. You are _powerful_, Hermione; do you think that I do not find that… more than a little… mmph."

He started to grind against her, and Hermione frantically whimpered. "Oh, there's a funeral going on downstairs. There's a _funeral._ We need to stop."

"I don't feel like stopping," Voldemort informed her, and he tightened his grip on her waist. He rolled his hips toward hers, feeling himself come alive, but he knew Hermione was right. They couldn't have sex in the library of this house whilst a full-fledged funeral went on downstairs. If someone walked in, the way Sylvie Malfoy had done… he could ward up the room, but was it worth it?

"Later," he mumbled, staggering back from Hermione. He dragged his wrist over his lips and told her, "As soon as we get back to Malfoy Manor, we're going to have dinner and then we're going to go to your suite, and your clothes are coming off."

Hermione smirked and nodded, standing up away from the bookshelf. "That sounds like quite a plan, My Lord. Now. We probably ought to go back downstairs, don't you think?"

**Author's Note: Okay. So, Voldemort's written to Odysseus Siegel. He's told Hermione about Odysseus Siegel. Obviously, we're going to get to know this guy a lot better. And plans are a' brewin' when it comes to James Potter. Good thing Hermione's Occlumency is now so strong that she can completely block Voldemort from reading her reaction about stuff like that (and Bellatrix), huh? Thank you so very kindly for the feedback on the last chapter. I am so very grateful. I really appreciate you reading.**


	14. Taken

"This is delicious." Hermione cut into her flaky butternut squash pie and brought the bite to her mouth. She chewed and eyed Voldemort, who was staring at her across the table. He sighed and admitted,

"It's odd. Not being able to sense anything at all from your mind. Your Occlumency is incredibly strong."

Hermione let down the powerful shield she had up in her head, and she pushed forth a thought toward him.

_Handsome and powerful and intelligent._

"Flattery." He tipped his head, shaking it. "I was seeking authenticity."

"Those are my authentic thoughts, I assure you," Hermione told him. Suddenly she realised she was telling him the truth. She had come here to destroy him. That had been her mission. She remembered the letter Odysseus Siegel had sent her in 2004.

_You have been given this Time-Turner, which is unique and very dangerous, with the belief that you are the only witch alive who possesses the capability to use it properly. During the Second Wizarding War, you made endless sacrifices for the good of the community, for the people you loved. We, who created this One-Way Time-Turner, are asking you to make the greatest sacrifice of all… transferring your future into the past for the betterment of us all._

_Think of Molly Weasley, who grieves her son Fred and her wounded sons Bill and George. Think of the students killed at the Battle of Hogwarts. Think of the innocent Muggles turned into Inferi by Lord Voldemort. And then ponder to yourself, 'What if I could keep all of that from happening? What if I could change the past for the improvement of the future?' Would you, Hermione Granger, give deeply of yourself for the wizarding world again?_

_On the 5th of October, 1968, Lord Voldemort will be at Avery Hall_ _in Yorkshire at a Masquerade Ball. Go there and introduce yourself to him. Ingratiate yourself to him; he will be looking for interesting friends and allies. You may surprise yourself, Hermione, with how much change you can bring about from within._

Suddenly Hermione realised something. She had not been explicitly sent back to destroy Lord Voldemort. She had been sent back to change the past. She had been sent back to keep her lived experience from happening. But she had not been told by Odysseus Siegel, the creator of the One-Way Time-Turner, to come to 1968 and demolish Lord Voldemort's chances of success. She had not been told to destroy his Horcruxes and kill him. She'd been told to find him at a Masquerade Ball and ingratiate herself to him, to bring about change from within.

That was a different mission entirely, Hermione considered, from what she'd initially thought. When she'd stood in the bathroom she'd shared with Ron Weasley and turned her Time-Turner back over and over again, she'd thought she was on a mission to annihilate Lord Voldemort and impair his movement. She'd thought she was coming back in time to shatter his dreams of success, to butcher his chances of winning. Wasn't that how she would save lives? But perhaps not. Perhaps, she thought, Odysseus Siegel's letter had been very carefully worded.

She had come back in time and she had sought favour with Lord Voldemort. So far, it had worked. As far as Hermione knew, Voldemort did not know that Hermione's initial mission had been to come back in time to destroy him. Now, even she wasn't sure that that had been her purpose in coming back. Perhaps that had just been her perception. Perhaps she'd been wrong about that.

"I eagerly await a response from Odysseus Siegel," Voldemort said, and Hermione couldn't help wondering if he'd seen a wisp of a thought from her. She nodded.

"I'd like to meet him."

"I'm not sure if he'll come," Voldemort said. "It's obvious to me that he saw the same world you saw, a world where I was destroyed and mortal and where the wrong innocents perished. I would like to know how exactly he decided to create the Time-Turner for you, to deliver it to you. I'd like to speak with him."

"And you're going to… to…" Hermione licked her lips. She took another bite of flaky butternut squash pie and sipped her white wine. She sighed. "James Potter."

"Once I have more information," Voldemort sniffed. He took a bite of his own pie and chewed carefully. "It can't come back to me. He needs to disappear."

Hermione knew what she ought to feel. She ought to feel completely horrified by the idea of Lord Voldemort killing _anybody._ But the rational part of her mind reasoned that James Potter had been murdered even in the timeline Hermione had experienced, and that if he were taken out of the equation earlier here, a lot could be avoided. Harry Potter would never be born, and thus the climactic end of the First Wizarding War would never come to pass. Voldemort would never fade away for years, without a body, letting the wizarding world carry on in complacency. And then he would never come roaring back in his snakelike form, with two new Horcruxes and a vengeance. The Second Wizarding War would never happen. People like Sirius Black, Fred Weasley, Tonks, Remus Lupin, the students who had died at the Battle of Hogwarts, and the innocents who had been killed during that Second Wizarding War would have a chance to live, Hermione thought. If… if James Potter disappeared as a child, instead of growing into the adult father of Harry Potter, so much death and suffering might be avoided. Hermione could see that, with the logical part of her mind. She didn't want to see it, but she could. She wanted to scream at Voldemort that killing absolutely anybody was wrong, that murder was always, always wrong. She wanted to hiss at him that he was a vicious killer who deserved no pity and no mercy, that she had come here to destroy him.

But she had absolutely no confidence anymore that that was why she had come, and she had precisely no strength of mind to tell him that getting rid of James Potter now was the wrong thing to do. Instead, she sipped her white wine, felt her stomach twist, and insisted,

"Please, if you do it, just don't give me any details."

"Harry was your friend," Voldemort conceded, "but he was my staunchest enemy. You must recognise that neither of us can live while the other survives, and so -"

"What did you just say?" Hermione felt cold. She stared right at Voldemort and let down her shield in her head. He frowned, and she felt the push of his Legilimency. She let him in. She showed him what she knew of the prophecy about Harry. She'd only been told about the prophecy, but she'd memorised most of it. She shoved forth the words of the prophecy toward Voldemort in her thoughts.

"_The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies… and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not… and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives… the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies."_

Hermione put her shield back up again - empty skies filled with stars, a mountaintop with snowy winds. Voldemort slid away, and he sipped deeply from his wine, setting down his glass and saying,

"James Potter must go. Sooner rather than later. I shall spare you detail, but know that you have given me more help in this than you could possibly… your loyalty is without question, isn't it?"

He narrowed his eyes at her, and Hermione gulped. She took a bite of butternut squash pie, chewed, and swallowed. Voldemort cleared his throat.

"Hermione."

She looked up. "Master."

"I asked you whether your loyalty had any question," he said, and she took the last sip of wine from her glass. It refilled itself, and she realised she was working on her third glass now. She took a big drink and set the glass down before she met Voldemort's eyes and said,

"I had no idea, My Lord, before I came back in time, what you were going to mean to me. I had doubts, before I left, to be certain, about what I had done and the way things had gone. I came here on a mission to change the past and to alter your course of action. But I did not realise I was going to feel this way about you. No. My loyalty has no question."

Her stomach ached then, and she sipped her wine again. Voldemort reached for her hand, guiding her glass of wine back to the table, and he warned her,

"You'll get drunk."

"Mmm. Maybe," she nodded. He shook his head and warned,

"If you're drunk, I won't take you. I don't partake of drunken witches. It's a step too far."

She nearly laughed at that, at the idea that Lord Voldemort of all people had enough scruples not to take advantage of a drunken witch. But she pushed her glass away and nodded, chewing her lip a bit. She glanced across the violet parlour towards the grand piano and asked,

"Will you play me something, please?"

"I told you I was going to take you upstairs after dinner," he smirked, "and get those clothes off of you."

"Music first. I beg it of you," she whispered. "Master, please."

His lips curled up, and he touched his napkin to his mouth. He pushed his chair back and rose, walking over to the piano and wandlessly moving the bench back. He sat, opening the piano and dusting his fingers up and down the keys a few times.

"What shall I play?" he asked, raising his eyes to Hermione. She felt dizzy as she stood beside the piano and requested,

"Something simple but beautiful."

Voldemort quirked up half of his mouth and nodded. "Schumann."

She was surprised to hear him quote a Muggle composer, and even more surprised when he began to play. His left hand raced in a rapid flutter beneath high chords. Hermione recognised the piece. _Fantasie in C._ This was beautiful, she thought, but it was not simple. His hands were absolutely flying, his fingers dancing. His little finger of his right hand stretched far as his thumb thudded, his middle fingers flickering. Then his left hand was beating and rippling again. The piece reached a quieter section with softer, lighter chords and more slowly moving lines, and Voldemort swayed.

All the while, Hermione found herself growing increasingly breathless. She stared at his face, and suddenly the word _Almost_ was gone. _Almost handsome._ Now she found the scar slicing down his mouth to be alluring. His shattered cheekbone and his chipped chin made him look rugged. His pale skin and his greying hair were distinguished. Somehow, he was attractive, this deeply flawed human.

Human.

She would have never considered Lord Voldemort to be human in her old life, she thought. Now he was a man playing the piano. Of course, he'd also spent dinner talking about an old friend who played with time, about plotting murder. He was remarkably Dark. He craved power. He wanted friends among the Pureblood ranks in this time because he wanted to lord over them. He wanted to be supremely influential. He was narcissistic. He was a megalomaniac. He was playing the piano.

His fingers flicked and fluttered, then thudded and thundered. He nodded and rocked back and forth as the piece crescendoed. He had it all memorised, Hermione realised. This grand long piece - he had the entire thing in his mind. It went on for a very long while, for so long that after a time he called up to her,

"Bored yet?"

"Not even a little bit, Master," Hermione replied honestly. He kept playing. The middle of _Fantasie in C_ was a triumphant march, and he pounded out the chords. Hermione remembered seeing this performed with her parents in London once when she'd been small. She remembered being enamoured with the pianist who had performed it, but somehow it hadn't seemed nearly as well done then as Voldemort was doing right now. He was an expert, she thought. He knew every note, every chord, every vibration that the piano needed to emit. His hands moved like creating this music was second nature, like producing this blissful sound was just another form of magic.

The piece swept from a low-key, _pianissimo_ section into a running, elegant _adagio_ finish, and it was completed with three delicate chords. Then, at long last, Voldemort pulled his hands from the keys and cracked his knuckles, admitting quietly,

"I haven't played that piece in probably twenty-five years."

"I'm sorry; what?" Hermione gaped at him, and she shook her head in shock. How could he remember it if he hadn't played it in so long? Was he some sort of prodigy? Some sort of genius? Well, of course he was. Of course he was a genius. He was Lord Voldemort.

"Well." He stood slowly and loomed over Hermione. "You got your piano performance. Satisfied?"

"I got what I wanted," she nodded. "Now it's time for you to get what you want."

She reached between them, sliding her fingers along the front of his black wool trousers. She watched Voldemort's throat bob, and his tongue dragged over his scarred lips.

"Upstairs," he whispered.

"Are you certain?" Hermione took a step closer to him. Her fingers began to work at the buttons on his trousers, and she heard Voldemort's breath hitch a little. His hands went to her hair, and he pulled her face back. He bent down and kissed her hard, and he murmured against her mouth,

"I told you that I was going to get those clothes off of you."

"Isn't there something I could… do to please you?" Hermione offered. "I mean to say, you've just pleased me very much with that piano playing and I should like to make you feel good right here, right now, and I… with my mouth, you know."

Voldemort's breath shook onto Hermione's lips. "Your mouth."

"Yes," she hummed back, shoving his trousers down over his hips a little. Suddenly Voldemort's hand flew up and there was a _click_ at the door behind Hermione. She almost laughed. They didn't want Sylvie Malfoy walking in again. Hermione reached into Voldemort's underwear and pulled out his cock, wrapping her hand around his shaft. She gasped a little against his mouth, thinking to herself that he was so much bigger than Ron had been. Perhaps it was the age difference. No. That made no sense. Ron had been in his mid-twenties; he'd been done growing. But it didn't matter. Ron was gone. Ron wasn't here; Lord Voldemort was here. Hermione was with Lord Voldemort right now.

She kissed him hard on his lips and moaned against his mouth, pumping her hand on his shaft and dragging her thumb over his tip. She'd only done this a few times. Only when she'd been feeling especially generous toward Ron had she ever put him in her mouth. And she'd never really wanted to do it. But she wanted it right now. She wanted this. She descended, lowering herself to her knees and pushing up Voldemort's black tunic. She rubbed at his taut stomach, feeling his smooth scar tissue beneath her fingertips. She caressed him there, brushing her middle finger along a scar and then touching at the dusting of hair that ran from his stomach down toward his cock.

"Hermione," Voldemort choked out. His own fingers nestled in her hair, and he pulled her face back so that she would look up at him. She kept one hand wrapped around him as her other hand massaged his scarred lower abdomen. She gazed up at Voldemort's dark eyes and murmured,

"I want this so very badly."

He huffed and shut his eyes. His throat visibly tightened, and his fingers cinched in Hermione's hair. She stared right at his cock, at the purplish head and the throbbing shaft, and she mumbled,

"I want to taste you. I want to taste your come."

"Hermione." He didn't seem to be able to say anything aside from her name right now. She didn't mind. She kissed the bottom of his tip and pumped her hand on his shaft as her other hand slid up his stomach beneath his tunic. She felt rivers of scar tissue, hard and raised, beneath her fingertips. She pushed her lips over his tip and suckled on him there for a moment, and he groaned. His breath came hard then, and his hands played with her hair.

Hermione began to kiss him then. She used her right hand to cup his balls and hold them gently, and she just began planting kisses all along his shaft and tip. She pressed her lips to him, then licked the places she kissed. She returned her hand to his shaft and dragged her hand down his stomach, grasping at his thigh. Hermione licked him like he was an ice cream cone then, swirling her tongue around his tip and desperately catching the fluid that drizzled from him. She moved her hand up and down his length and suckled on his frenulum, and by then Voldemort was groaning continuously.

"Hermione." This was the third time he'd choked out her name, and now he sounded desperate. His fingers were snared deeply into her hair, and he wrenched her head back so she'd look at him again. Hermione let his cock rest on her bottom lip, let him stare down at her as she worshipped his member. She suckled on him again and gazed up at him, and his eyelids fluttered shut. He shook his head and insisted,

"Feels entirely too good."

"Mmm…" Hermione drove him deeply into her mouth. She pulled his cock straight down her throat, resisting the urge to choke and splutter. She held his hips with both her hands and wrapped her lips tightly around his shaft. She swallowed five or six times, gulping down his tip until it poked at the back of her throat. She was squeezing at him, she knew, and it was taking all she had not to let her eyes water. She needed breath. She pulled back and jerked him hard with her hand, opening her mouth and staring up at him.

"Master," she whispered, and his head fell back. He rolled his hips forward, and his lips parted. His eyes squeezed shut, and he murmured distantly,

"Hermione."

Then he was coming, and Hermione realised it was landing all over the neckline of her black dress. It was missing her face, for it was coming in violent spurts. She laughed just a little at the enormous mess it was making all over her, and as she slowed her hand on Voldemort's cock, she watched him lower his face and scoff,

"Oh, my."

"Oops." Hermione dragged a finger through the disaster, and Voldemort shuddered. He was still mostly hard, and he seemed to still be coming down from his high as he reached into his robes and pulled out his wand. He aimed it at Hermione and incanted firmly,

"_Tergeo. Scourgify._"

"Thanks." Hermione slowly stood, her knees creaking a little. She'd come alive, wet between her own legs and tingling. She watched as Voldemort tucked himself away, as he buttoned up his trousers and arranged his tunic. He cleared his throat and suggested,

"I can… take care of you. I won't leave you unsatisfied."

"As I said, My Lord, you satisfied me immensely with a half hour of piano playing," Hermione told him. He narrowed his eyes at her and cupped her jaw in his hand, and then he let out breath that shook more than Hermione would have expected. He noted,

"You said that you belong to me."

Hermione's cheeks went hot. She still wasn't entirely sure why she'd said that at the funeral, but now she nodded and specified,

"I am your servant. I have come back in time, giving up my life, in order to assure your success. I do think I belong to you."

"Ah. I see." Voldemort pinched his lips. Hermione's breath shook. Had he wanted her to mean something different? She thought of Bellatrix, of the way Voldemort had moved his hand off of Hermione's lower back and had taken Bellatrix's hand. Her eyes burned a little; she knew full well how Bellatrix felt about Voldemort. Hermione stammered,

"I - I… find myself enormously drawn to you, Master, in a way I had not anticipated."

"As I find myself drawn to you," he nodded, "in a way I could never have foreseen. Hmm. And Abraxas longs for you, too. But he is a married man."

"So he is." Hermione sniffed. "Sylvie is a beautiful witch; I've no idea why Abraxas lets his eyes wander."

"Because he's not blind," Voldemort snapped. Hermione's eyes went wide, and she watched Voldemort chew his lip for a moment as he observed, "Sylvie Malfoy is as cold as an Arctic winter, and as stupid as a mountain troll. She may be pretty, and of pure blood, but she leaves much to be desired. Then you show up, and… well."

"Well." Hermione laughed a little and shook her head. "I confess, My Lord, that I wouldn't see the appeal in me if I were a wizard."

"Don't be self-deprecating," Voldemort said, rolling his eyes. "You're not a fool."

Hermione felt confused. She furrowed her brow. She wasn't particularly pretty, was she? She wasn't especially desirable, surely?

"You are no fool," Voldemort repeated, lowering his hand, "and so I'm sure you understand why it is that wizards find you exceptionally fascinating. You have a brilliant mind. You are confident. You are a powerful witch. And you are indeed very, very pretty. Abraxas Malfoy would be a complete moron to have you living in his house and not want you. I don't blame him a bit. Not that it makes me want to Stupefy him any less."

Hermione coughed out a little laugh. She shook her head. "Master."

"Hermione." He took her face in his hands and kissed her forehead. He spoke against her skin then and told her, "Any other witch would have lost her mind with jealousy over Bellatrix, but you understand why I did what I did, because you know how critically important it is that I keep her at precisely one arm's length. Don't you?"

"As I said, Master, it isn't my place to be jealous of you, to be possessive over you," Hermione said. She raised her eyes to him, and he sighed. He sucked on his bottom lip and told her,

"I wouldn't mind you being just the slightest bit desirous of me."

She smiled and affirmed, "I am certainly desirous of you."

"Well, then," he said, "I wouldn't mind you being just a little bit selfish about me. Even with the understanding of what I must do."

Hermione wondered just what he was suggesting then. Did he mean that the two of them were… _together?_ She let her lips fall open, and she asked softly,

"What is this?"

"Perhaps I would like it if I could claim to Abraxas that you were more than just a weapon, more than just an employee," Voldemort said a bit sharply. "Perhaps I would like it if you could tell Bellatrix that whilst she's more than welcome to pursue life as a soldier of mine, she can't come chasing after me wanting kisses, because I'm… you know…"

"Taken," Hermione whispered. Voldemort let out a hard breath and nodded.

"Taken."

"I rather like that, Master," Hermione smiled, feeling weak. What on Earth would the people she had left behind say about her being _taken_ by Lord Voldemort? Did it matter? They were all gone. She was here. She was with him. She wasn't even sure now that she'd been sent to destroy him. She gazed right into his eyes and whispered, "Goodnight."

He kissed her forehead again and slid his fingers back into her hair. "Goodnight."

**Author's Note: Oh, dear. Hermione is pretty much completely lost to the Dark Side. She's now questioning whether or not her actual mission was to destroy Voldemort (and, let's be honest, now that we're re-reading Odysseus' letter, aren't we all kind of questioning that?). She's head over heels for the guy, and she's **_**taken**_ **by him. So will O.S. come to England, and what's going to happen with James Potter? We'll see in the next chapter!**

**Thank you so incredibly much for the feedback. I do sincerely appreciate it.**


	15. Orsino and the Bears

Voldemort opened the first letter in the small pile on his desk. He broke the dark blue seal on the back and pulled out a folded parchment from inside. He squinted at the minuscule writing and realised he needed his reading glasses, which he very rarely wore, and frustratedly pulled them out from their leather case on the side of his desk. He shoved them onto his face and sighed, reading,

_Dear Sir,_

_I write to inform you of my friendship, and of my intention to be a part of the political movement you are organising. I wholeheartedly support your aims to keep wizarding society in its rightful place. Please accept a gift of five thousand Galleons, transferred from my Gringotts account to yours, as a token of our mutual trust and our shared goals. I look forward to working with you in future._

_Sincerely,_

_Conleth Yaxley_

Voldemort smirked, feeling quite pleased. He quickly penned a response to old Mr Yaxley, thanking him for his loyalty and his donation, choosing his words carefully. He bound up the letter and sealed it, addressing it to Yaxley Hall, where he knew Conleth rested in retirement. Voldemort went to the next letter and opened it, recognising the script at once. Her writing was messy and tight at the same time - Bellatrix Black.

_Dear Lord Voldemort,_

_I write to ask most earnestly how you are doing. I wonder all the time what our meeting will be like when we see one another at Christmastime. I do so look forward to sitting down with you to discuss my future working for you, to talk about the things we enjoy and the things we despise. I want to know you better, sir, and I want you to know me. I wish so fervently for you to realise that I will be your most dedicated servant. Please write back. I await your letter most impatiently._

_Yours… yours._

_Bellatrix Black_

Lord Voldemort curled up a lip. Perhaps in Hermione's lived experience, he had taken advantage of Bellatrix's loyalty because she'd been a fierce fighter. But her cloying nature here was almost too much to bear. She was just obnoxious, he thought. And she seemed a touch mad. She did not seem right in the head. There had been rumours about Bellatrix Black - she'd tortured a Puffskein as a little girl. She'd Hexed a classmate as a second-year and had earned herself months of detention. She'd deliberately blown up a potion to get out of lessons. Something was wrong with her. She was… _off._ Voldemort sighed and pulled out a parchment, his chest quivering a little as he wondered just how near he needed to keep Bellatrix this time around. He had Hermione. Did he need Bellatrix the way he'd needed her in Hermione's past life? Did he even want her?

_Dear Bella, _he found himself writing,

_I am well. We shall talk at Christmas, though I shall be very busy. And you ought to know that I have engaged myself in a relationship with Hermione Granger. It would be inappropriate for me to meet with you privately given my personal circumstances, so Hermione will be present at our meeting. I know you'll understand. You, who will work most closely with me, will respect my boundaries._

_Wishing you health, happiness, and success in your studies. Be well, Bella. We shall speak and see one another soon._

_L.V._

He cleared his throat and blew on the ink to dry it. He folded the letter thrice and pushed it into an envelope, sealed it up with wax, and then wrote on the outside, _Miss Bellatrix Black, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry._

He huffed a breath and picked up the third letter from his stack of mail, and then he froze with it in his hands.

_Tom Marvolo Riddle,_ it read on the outside. _Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire._

He knew the script. He'd seen it on chalkboards for years. Dumbledore. He opened the envelope and pulled out the letter inside, and when he opened it, he felt his lips go cold. It was a long missive, and as he read, his anxiety grew.

_Dear Tom,_

_When I saw you and your new compatriot in Diagon Alley, I confess I peered into her mind with Legilimency for the briefest moment, for I did not recognise her and she confused me. I know you'll understand the temptation to use this gift, Tom._

_What I saw, even in that brief moment, amazed me._

_I will not tell you what I saw in Hermione Granger's mind, because I do not wish to put her in any more danger than she may already be in. Suffice it to say that what I saw convinced me that she does not belong here. What I saw convinced me that she had no business walking through Diagon Alley with you of all people, Tom Riddle. I do not know if you had her under the Imperius Curse, or if you are simply unaware of her reality. But what I saw led me to believe that very Dark magic has transpired to bring Hermione Granger to a time and place where she simply ought not be._

_The problem, of course, is returning her home. I think you know as well as I do that there is no way to put her back where she came from. I also think that you do not wish to return her. I think you wish to keep her, or to use her and then destroy her. Rest assured, Tom, that my friends and I will not allow you to carry on unfettered. We will not permit you to have a time traveller possessing a treasure trove of dangerous information at your disposal, for use as a personal weapon. _

_Bring Madam Granger to the Ministry of Magic this Saturday at five o'clock. I will meet you in the Minister's office for a safe handing over. She will be properly attended to and taken care of as a traveller. Efforts to make amends for the egregious breaches of time travel protocol will be made. We will keep her safe, and we will leave you be. Otherwise, Tom, the Ministry will be forced to act. Rest assured that this incident has been fully reported and that the Minister for Magic is very well aware that there is a time traveller in wizarding Britain._

_We will not let this matter rest._

_Make the right choice. I shall see you this Saturday._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Albus Dumbledore_

* * *

"So, are you going to take me to the Ministry of Magic?" Hermione asked, poking at her mashed potato. Voldemort gave her a withering look across the little table in the violet parlour and shook his head.

"No, I am not going to take you to the Ministry of Magic, Hermione. If Albus Dumbledore has managed to convince the Minister that you're a time traveller, I shall simply convince the Minister that you are not. It's his word against mine."

"But I've no documentation," Hermione argued.

"That's because you're a Muggle-born who went undetected by the Ministry," Voldemort snapped. Hermione sighed and argued,

"Isn't that something a time traveller would make up as a cover story?"

"Well, for the time being, we're keeping you here at Malfoy Manor. Abraxas and I have agreed to ward the place up tighter than a… well. Anyway. You're going to stay here until Dumbledore calms himself down. He always does this; he gets himself worked up and then he settles down."

Hermione smirked a bit, taking a bite of mashed potato. "Not the Dumbledore I knew. Once he set his mind to something, it was over."

"Well, we're not going to let him take you," Voldemort snarled. He was in a particularly foul mood today after opening Dumbledore's letter and then reading in Abraxas' thoughts that keeping Hermione about would be a particularly marvelous course of events. He'd had more than enough of Abraxas' lustful pining. Voldemort pinched his lips and stared at Hermione's wedding rings. She was still a married witch, wasn't she? She was his, but she was also Ron Weasley's.

"My Lord?"

He raised his eyes to hers, and she covered her wedding rings with her fingers. She'd seen him staring. She sighed slowly, and he wished all of a sudden that she had not become such a skilled Occlumens. But then she asked,

"Would you prefer it if I did not wear them? The rings?"

"You left behind a husband," Voldemort shrugged. "I won't tell you to take them off."

"But my husband is gone," Hermione said, "and I am here with you, and you've taken me now."

Voldemort sucked on his bottom lip and was about to speak. He watched as Hermione reached with her right hand to her left and slid off her little diamond engagement ring and her simple wedding band. She tucked them into the pocket of her skirt and rubbed at her fourth left finger as she whispered,

"It doesn't make sense to wear them here."

He found her eyes, and he nodded. Yes, he thought. She was his. And he quite liked that.

* * *

On Saturday night, Lord Voldemort stood in a cold rain outside the Potter estate in Kent. He gulped and cast a few more Transfiguration Charms upon his face. He was young and blond now, he knew. He couldn't completely rid himself of the scarring, but he had radically altered his features. He looked nothing like himself. He wouldn't be recognised. He strode up toward the front door of the mansion and rammed the knocker a few times. After awhile, the door swung open, and a little House-Elf stood before him. She looked abjectly feminine, and young for an elf, and her voice was a squeak as she asked,

"May Fally help you, sir?"

"I need to see the Master and Mistress of the house," Voldemort snapped. "It's a Ministry matter. You can tell them."

"Straight away, sir." Fally the House-Elf went tottering off as Voldemort stepped slowly into the grand foyer of the Potter mansion. The door shut behind him, and he coughed quietly. It echoed through the marble hall, and his boots squeaked a little on the floor. He sniffed, glancing around. A boy appeared at the top of the winding, broad staircase, and Voldemort felt his eyes go wide.

"Are you James?" he asked. "James Potter?"

"Yes, sir," said the little boy. "Who're you?"

"I'm from the Ministry of Magic. I've come on an official matter," Voldemort said simply. "Just need to speak with your mother and father."

He stared at the boy then and nonverbally, wandlessly incanted, _Confundo. _James vibrated where he stood, and Voldemort made him think that going back upstairs to his bedroom was a good idea. He should shut the door, James would think, and put on his record player rather loudly. James shrugged and said,

"Dull adult stuff, then. Bye."

"Goodbye." Voldemort quirked up half his mouth and decided he was going to do this in a way that wouldn't wound Hermione too badly. If he took out the entire family, it would be easier. So much cleaner, so much quicker and simpler. But she would be heartbroken, he thought, if she read in the newspaper that Fleamont and Euphemia Potter and their House-Elf had been killed. And, for some reason, he cared what Hermione read in the newspaper. It mattered to him, for some reason, that Hermione was affected by collateral damage.

"Hello, sir," called a voice. Fleamont and Euphemia Potter came walking into the foyer. Voldemort startled. They seemed entirely too old to have a boy of only eight. They were grey-haired and walked slowly. He frowned and cleared his throat, pulling a forged document out of his robes.

"Mr and Mrs Potter. My name is Graham Hobbles. I'm here from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. I'm sure it's just a mix-up, but there's been a family heirloom found in Borgin and Burkes that we believe may rightfully belong to you, and we'd like to see if you can identify it."

"Borgin and Burkes!" Fleamont Potter scowled. He took the document from Voldemort, who pulled out his wand and immediately aimed it at Fleamont, then Euphemia, then Fally the House-Elf.

"_Stupefy! Stupefy! Stupefy!_"

One by one, the figures careened backward, soaring against walls and collapsing onto the floor. Knocked unconscious, Fleamont Potter released the Ministry paper Voldemort had handed him. Voldemort picked up the parchment and Vanished it, and then he walked over to Euphemia and aimed his wand at her. He twisted his wand and murmured,

"_Obliviate._"

He thought of everything that had transpired so far since he'd arrived, all the way back through the elf coming to fetch them. Fleamont and Euphemia would not remember a Ministry official coming to their home. They wouldn't remember anything. They would just remember being in their parlour, sitting with tea and books. Voldemort Obliviated Fleamont, then the House-Elf. He dashed up the carpeted stairs, careful not to touch anything, and used his wand to fling open the door from which recorded music was blaring.

"Gah!" James Potter, the little boy, flew off of his four-poster bed and staggered away from Voldemort, obviously frightened by the intrusion. His record player kept spinning, playing wizarding rock music by Orsino and the Bears. Voldemort knew he was running out of time; Fleamont and Euphemia and the House-Elf would rouse soon enough downstairs, confused but awake. Voldemort aimed his wand straight at James Potter and incanted without hesitation,

"_Avada Kedavra!_"

A jet of jade green light flew from Voldemort's wand and blared right at James Potter, engulfing the small boy in emerald light. As he collapsed in silent death, Voldemort stalked toward him, checking to be sure the boy did not move or breathe. Still, the record player went on. Voldemort let out a hard huff of breath and jabbed the tip of his wand down at James, snapping firmly,

"_Corpus Evanesco._"

The body dissolved into thin air, Vanishing into Non-Being like James Potter had never, ever existed. There would be no Harry Potter now, Voldemort thought. Neither could live while the other survived. James Potter was gone.

Voldemort Disapparated from the boy's bedroom with an uncharacteristic _crack_ and came to inside his office, breathing heavily and going straight for his drinks cart, determined to make good use of his firewhisky tonight.

**Author's Note: A bleak chapter! Sorry about that! So, Dumbledore's after Hermione! Hermione's not wearing her wedding rings anymore! And James Potter is dead! Oh, and Voldemort has had it up to here with Abraxas lusting over Hermione. Hmm. What next?**

**Thank you so very much for your patience with me this weekend and for reading and reviewing.**


	16. Expecto Patronum

"Coming!"

Hermione dashed out from her black and white bedroom, sweeping her plush burgundy dressing gown around herself and yanking at the tie around her waist. Someone was knocking insistently on the door of her suite. She had a feeling she knew who it was, but just the same, she was bundling up. She went through the suite's little sitting room and pulled open the door to the corridor, and before her stood Lord Voldemort, swaying where he stood and holding a bottle of firewhisky in one hand and an empty tumbler in the other.

"Hello, My Lord." Hermione frowned, for it was past midnight and he seemed awfully drunk. He stepped into her room, smelling strongly of alcohol, and he used his shoulder to shove the door shut. He sniffed, poured himself a little more firewhisky, and swigged it down. He seethed through clenched teeth and reminded Hermione in a low growl,

"You told me to spare you the details."

Hermione's stomach clenched. James Potter. She shut her eyes and shook her head. Her eyes seared, scarlet heat taking her over for a moment. Harry's father was dead. Harry Potter would never be born. She'd killed Harry, hadn't she? She'd made Harry become Un-Born. She'd erased his life. His friendship with Ron, his romance with Ginny, his fatherhood. His Quidditch career, his heroism. All gone. And James' swirling romance with Lily Evans was gone, too. His brief experience as a loving father to Harry was gone. Hermione hadn't told Lord Voldemort to do it, but she'd tacitly agreed that it might be for the best.

And something still tugged within her, telling her that she was right to believe that. Perhaps in this world, Severus Snape and Lily Evans would become dearest friends before school and then remain close at Hogwarts. Perhaps here the two of them would stay happy together.

"Lily," she whispered. She opened her eyes and stared at Voldemort. "Lily Evans. Harry's mother. She's Muggle-born; she and Severus Snape -"

"My prediction is that the wisest course of action will be to leave that situation well enough alone," Voldemort slurred, his words an absolute fog. He tried to drink from his glass, but it was empty. He shook his head and said, "I'm not going to… to eliminate Muggle-borns. They'll have a place this time around. So."

"So a Half-Blood like Severus Snape could be happy with a Muggle-born like Lily Evans?" Hermione wondered why she cared. Why did she care at all whether Snape was happy, whether Lily got to live on? None of it mattered if there was no Harry, did it? She gulped and studied Voldemort's face, which suddenly seemed more scarred than ever. He let out a shaking breath and licked his damaged lips.

"I tried to do it so that you would not despise me. I did not take out Fleamont or Euphemia Potter. I didn't even kill the House-Elf. They were Stunned and Obliviated."

Hermione tried to tell him that he'd promised to spare her the details, but then she realised she wanted to know what had happened. She didn't want some third-hand report from the _Daily Prophet._ She sniffled, feeling a tear run down her cheek. She swiped at the tear and asked in a broken little voice,

"Did James feel any pain?"

"No. He felt nothing at all," Voldemort promised. He drank directly from the bottle of firewhisky then. He shrugged and admitted, "I don't know why I'm drunk; I've never gotten drunk."

_After committing murder,_ he meant. Hermione shut her eyes and felt sick. She reached for the bottle of firewhisky in Voldemort's hand and brought it to her own lips. She knocked it back and drank, feeling it sear her throat as she chugged. She sputtered and coughed as she dragged her wrist over her lips, passing the bottle back to Voldemort.

"He was just a little boy," Hermione complained, suddenly snatching the bottle back and swigging again. It burned her throat so badly that she whimpered in pain, and when she shoved the bottle of firewhisky back to Voldemort, she started to feel her head spin. She stumbled away from him, going back toward her bedroom. She heard his footsteps padding on the floor behind her, and his voice was a low rumble as he promised her,

"He felt no pain. He felt nothing. The parents remember nothing. The House-Elf remembers nothing. None of them will go to Azkaban over it; it's a tragic disappearance. A mystery. And you know that it needed to happen."

Hermione tried to tell herself that he was wrong. She tried to tell herself that she'd been sent back in time to destroy the Dark Lord. But she had no idea anymore why she'd come back in time. Her wedding rings, the one Ron Weasley had put on her finger, were in her Extended handbag. Her mind bore no confidence anymore that she was truly an enemy of Lord Voldemort. She had no clarity of thought about Albus Dumbledore these days. She felt confusion swirling in her mind, and as she silently stripped off her heavy dressing gown, she thought that she barely recognised herself.

She wordlessly climbed into her bed, slithering between the sheets and pulling herself up into a ball. Voldemort stood behind her, and she heard him sniff a bit and ask,

"Shall I go now?"

"No." Hermione shut her eyes. "Stay, Master, please."

She heard the little clunk of glass on wood as he set down the bottle of firewhisky and the empty tumbler. She heard him sliding off his dragonhide boots and slipping off his outer robe. And then she felt pressure on the bed behind her as he moved beneath the blankets and spooned her, wrapping an arm around her. He smelled of firewhisky and rain. She breathed it in, noticing hints of other aromas. Leather. Wood. She sank back against him and murmured,

"You did what you had to do. I have to believe that."

"Your mind is entirely closed to me. I have no idea what you're thinking," he complained. Hermione turned her head a little and met his eyes. She took down her mental shields, erasing the images of cloudless night skies, of vast empty lakes. She felt the thud of his Legilimency pushing against her head, and she admitted him.

_I have absolutely no idea whether or not killing a little boy will ever be the right thing to do. It doesn't feel like the right thing to do. But, then, it doesn't feel like the right thing to do to allow things to play out the way I lived them, either. That feels wrong. Eliminating James Potter now, before he falls in love with Lily Evans and has Harry as his son, may well save lives. It may ease a great deal of suffering. And, since I the James I knew died, too, it's a chance I'm willing to take. I am not happy that a child is dead. But if there is any chance that this earlier death changes things for the better, then I am glad for that. I trust you. My Lord, I trust you._

She pushed up her walls again, blacking him out of her mind with blots of ink inside her skull. She rotated toward him and wondered if her Occlumency would hold in sleep. She wondered what he would see in her dreams. Would she ever be able to be at peace with him? Or would she always need to be awake, alert, on guard? She stared into his dark eyes, noticing the one that was drooping, and she asked,

"Did the damage happen all at once, or did it get worse each time?"

Half his mouth quirked up, and he tucked Hermione's hair behind her ear. "It got worse each time. The first time, my skin got a little pale. But I was still a very handsome Hogwarts student. The second time, I got a few strands of grey in my hair and a few scars on my arms and chest. The third time, my cheek and chin shattered and wouldn't heal, no matter what spells or potions I tried to fix them. The fourth time, my eyelid and the other scars came. My skin grew paler. My hair got worse. The fifth time, I started to look waxy. Worn. Broken."

"Doesn't it worry you?" Hermione asked. "Splintering yourself like that?"

He huffed a breath and whispered, "The things we'll do for immortality."

Hermione shut her eyes, knowing she should not say what she was about to say. "If you're going to win, you need to be more protective of them. Of your Horcruxes. Some of them… we had too easy a time destroying. We found them too easily. Ravenclaw's diadem at Hogwarts? The diary? You need to be more careful, Master."

"Mm-hmm." He petted her hair and kissed her forehead. "I shall be very careful this time. Don't think it hasn't crossed my mind that you know about them."

Suddenly Hermione felt cold. She pulled back and met Voldemort's gaze. She shook her head and whispered, "I'm not here to destroy you."

"I know that," he told her. "Just the same, I'm going to move them all, and I'm not going to tell you where I put them. I know you'll understand."

"Of course." Hermione wrenched her eyes shut. She remembered being in the Forest of Dean with Harry and Ron, struggling to destroy the locket Horcrux. Who in this existence would ruin Voldemort's Horcruxes? Could she bring herself to destroy his soul, now that she knew him? Could she stab a Basilisk fang into his soul now that she was cradled in his arms?

"You are somewhere else," he whispered, and she reached up to hold his face. He was drunk, she thought. His dark eyes were glassy. She stared into his gaze, bathed in moonlight, and she mumbled,

"I'm right here with you."

* * *

The next evening, the Malfoys were hosting Nott, Avery, and Cygnus and Druella Black for a small dinner party. This would be the first time Hermione would sit beside Voldemort at a social event as more than just his weapon. He'd told her that he would make it very plain to his old school friends that Hermione was his witch. So she'd tried to dress for the occasion in the best way she knew how.

She'd worn a dress she'd brought from 2004 - a knee-length, long-sleeved dress with a deep V neckline, an explosion of bright red sequins. It was abjectly festive, clearly intended for the winter season, and Hermione paired it with knee-high black boots with stiletto heels. She put on black beaded earrings and pulled her hair into a high ponytail, slicking it with Sleekeazy's until it was straight and smooth. She used the cosmetics she'd brought to line her eyes with thick black lines, applying loads of mascara, and then she put on a sheen of bright red lipstick.

There was knocking on the door that led from her suite to the corridor, and Hermione's boots clacked on the tile floor as she crossed the sitting room. She pulled open the door and found Voldemort before her in neatly tailored black velvet robes. His eyes instantly went round as saucers and quite wide, and his mouth actually fell open. He shook his head and said incredulously,

"You can't go down there like that."

"What? I mean to say… is something wrong, Master?" Hermione glanced down at herself. She didn't think her dress was particularly revealing. She frowned up at Voldemort, whose cheeks had gone pink.

"Abraxas will…" He cleared his throat and shrugged. "Well, fine. Let him stare. Let him ogle. I know where I stand."

Hermione smirked and walked out into the corridor, pulling the door shut. She started to walk down the corridor with Voldemort toward the staircase, and he told her quietly,

"Wait."

She turned around, and he reached to cup her jaw in his hand. He bent towards her and asked softly,

"Have you enchanted your makeup to stay on?"

"Yes," Hermione replied, "I have."

"Mmm. Well, then." Voldemort kissed her, quite delicately, and suddenly she was taken back to the first time she'd been kissed by him in this corridor. He'd taken her by surprise, and she'd yelped against his mouth, reaching for his robes. She took hold of his arms now, rubbing at his biceps and humming onto his lips.

"I can't wait to show them," he whispered, and Hermione pulled back.

"Show them what, My Lord?"

He pushed his lips against her forehead and murmured, "You."

He slid his hand into hers then and pulled her toward the stairs, leading her down to the first floor. Hermione was surprised that he was holding her hand all the way to the dining room, but as they approached, he held fast. Hermione let him lead her into the dining room, and when they entered, Nott and Avery were speaking with Abraxas Malfoy, and Cygnus and Druella Black were speaking with Sylvie.

"Good evening," said Lord Voldemort as they strode into the room. Nott and Avery turned away from Abraxas, and Nott immediately bowed his curly head. Avery touched his hand to his narrow chest and inclined his chin, and then Cygnus Black III boomed,

"Sir! Madam Granger! So good to see the both of you."

"Cygnus. I've been hearing rather incessantly from your eldest daughter," said Voldemort lightly. "She is so very anxious to work with me."

"So she is," Cygnus grinned. "Our Bellatrix is very eager when she sets her mind to something."

"Quite so," Voldemort sniffed. Everyone took their seats then, and Voldemort pulled out Hermione's chair for her. She sat beside him, with Abraxas Malfoy to her right and Sylvie Malfoy across the table from her.

"Madam Granger," purred Abraxas as they all put their napkins on their laps, "Your red dress is so… stylish… if you'll allow me to say so."

"Commenting on ladies' fashion, Abraxas?" snapped Sylvie. "How very strange."

"Thank you, Mr Malfoy. It's just an old thing I had," Hermione insisted. She noticed then that thin, pale Avery from down the table was flicking his pale eyes to her every now and then. Voldemort glanced between Abraxas and Avery, and his cheeks went pink as he cleared his throat roughly. He seized Hermione's left hand in his right one and planted them on the table.

"But you must show them all your wonderful trick before dinner, Hermione," Voldemort said a bit loudly. Hermione was confused, and she frowned at him in bemusement. She squeezed his hand a little, and he gave her a very deliberate look and said softly, "Take out your wand, Hermione, and show them all your otter."

Hermione flushed hot then. She nodded and reached into the pocket of her long-sleeved red sequined dress, pulling out her vine wand. She cleared her throat as the table went quiet. She pushed her chair back a little and aimed her wand high above the table, and she shut her eyes. Once upon a time, summoning a very happy memory had involved her parents, or Harry and Ron. But now, the first very happy memory that settled into her mind was the idea of being naked in bed with Lord Voldemort, of kissing him fiercely whilst his arms were wrapped around her body. He was pulling her close, his leg snaring over hers. And suddenly Hermione was flooded with bliss, with complete happiness. She grinned and exclaimed rather breathlessly,

"_EXPECTO PATRONUM!"_

She opened her eyes to see a white flash of light, a flaring burst of explosive force from her wand. Suddenly a fully corporeal Patronus had taken form - her beloved otter. It began flitting around the room, twirling around and swimming through unseen waters. Everyone at the table gasped, and Hermione smiled as she directed the Patronus. She drove it about, moving the otter round Nott's and Avery's heads, then bringing it back and settling it beside Sylvie Malfoy. Sylvie's face went pale, then scarlet. Her blue eyes went very wide, and her lips fell open in shock. Abraxas clapped and whooped in celebration, and finally Hermione flicked her wand to release the spell and dissolve the otter from thin air.

"Was that a… a… Patronus Charm?" asked Druella Black disbelievingly.

"Indeed it was," Voldemort confirmed. "A fully corporeal Patronus Charm. It is, I assure you, the mere tip of the iceberg when it comes to Hermione's magical abilities."

"And you're self-taught," Nott said, his thick brows furrowing. "You didn't go to school."

"Isn't she an absolute marvel?" Voldemort put his hand between Hermione's shoulder blades and leaned over, kissing her temple. "She is, I think, the most powerful witch I've yet known. And you are aware, my friends, that I spent my time on the Continent encountering many powerful witches and wizards."

"My goodness," breathed Druella. Cygnus Black touched his napkin to his lips and coughed quietly, seeming almost alarmed by what Hermione could do. Voldemort continued almost brazenly,

"You're all aware that I am a gifted Occlumens. Avery, you remember that time when I was Head Boy and you'd smuggled in Firewhisky and I had to pull out of your head where you'd gotten it? Hmm. Anyway. Hermione can completely shut me out. She's by far the most skilled Occlumens I've ever encountered, and, again, I've looked into many minds."

"My Lord, you flatter me," Hermione purred, turning her head towards him. Voldemort curled up half his mouth and shook his head.

"On the contrary. They must know you as I do."

The table was very quiet then, until at last Sylvie Malfoy said in a breathless voice,

"The salad is here!"

People ate with low conversation for awhile; Nott blathered on for some time about his work, and then Avery asked Abraxas questions about Quidditch that almost turned into an argument until Sylvie Malfoy insisted upon a change of topic. That led to Druella Black stating that she was absolutely positive her youngest daughter was madly in love with Lucius Malfoy, and everyone giggled at the teenagers' expense. Voldemort stayed quiet through it all, glancing between Abraxas Malfoy and Avery for a while. As he ate his chicken, he reached for Hermione's left hand and brushed his thumb over her bare fourth finger, where her wedding rings had once been. She shivered a little at his touch, for it felt rather meaningful just now.

Dessert came, and it was a rather delicious coconut almond cake. Hermione chewed a bite as Sylvie Malfoy and Druella Black chatted about getting new robes made for the Christmas season. Beside her, Abraxas Malfoy dragged his fork through his lips and stared right at Hermione. She withered a little under the weight of his gaze, and when she met his eyes, he blinked at her and then smiled a little.

"Malfoy," Voldemort snapped suddenly, so harshly that Hermione startled. She glanced back to see that Voldemort's cheeks had gone very red, and he was glaring daggers at Abraxas Malfoy. He shook his head silently, and when Hermione looked back at Abraxas, the blond man's face had flushed crimson. His throat bobbed, and he whispered,

"I do apologise."

"Hermione, have you finished your cake?" Voldemort asked, licking his lips. Hermione thought perhaps it would be best for her to be done with her cake, so she just nodded and pushed back her chair.

"I'm so very tired. Early night tonight. Thank you kindly for dinner, Mr and Madame Malfoy," she said, standing.

"What Hermione means is that I'm awfully eager to get her upstairs," Voldemort said softly, directly to Abraxas. Sylvie Malfoy looked confused, and a bit scandalised, but she huffed and said,

"Of course. Do… _sleep…_ well."

"Thank you." Hermione's cheeks went hot, and she felt Voldemort's hand go to the small of her back. He led her out of the dining room, not saying another word to the other guests. Once they were outside the dining room, in the corridor, she expected him to lead her to the stairwell. Instead, she found herself being dragged over to a wall, and all of a sudden he was pressing her roughly against the wood paneling. Hermione gasped as Voldemort put a hand on either side of her shoulders.

"What are you doing, Master?" she hissed. He bent down and crushed her mouth with a ferocious kiss. His tongue plunged between her lips, and his hand went to her waist. His other hand braced him against the wall. Hermione moaned a little and arched her back, leaning up against him. From inside the dining room, she heard Abraxas Malfoy say,

"Be right back, Sylvie."

"Where are you going?" Hermione heard Sylvie ask.

"I'll only be a moment." Abraxas' voice sounded dull, off. A chair scraped, and then there were footsteps. He was coming out into the corridor, Hermione realised. Then she thought that Voldemort had made this happen. He'd Confounded Abraxas to come out here, to see this. He wanted Abraxas to see him kissing Hermione. So she snared her arms around Voldemort's shoulders and writhed in his arms until his hand slid to her backside. She tangled her tongue with his until he grunted, and then she heard Abraxas say quietly from beside them,

"Apologies, sir."

Voldemort ignored Abraxas, kissing Hermione and rubbing at her hip. Still Abraxas did not move. Hermione glanced to her right to see Abraxas standing there, flexing his hands, looking terribly embarrassed. He bowed his head, but then he looked up as though he'd been forced to do so. _Imperiused,_ Hermione wondered, _or Confounded?_ It was difficult to tell. Either way, Abraxas Malfoy was not in control of the way he was standing and watching Lord Voldemort stake a claim over the witch Abraxas had hungrily been eyeing.

Finally, Voldemort pulled away from Hermione and dragged his thumb over his lip. He narrowed his eyes at Abraxas and said,

"Lovely wife you've got waiting for you in that dining room."

"She is, sir," Abraxas agreed.

"I'm going upstairs with Hermione now," Voldemort said, raising his eyebrows. Hermione panted a little as she watched Abraxas' reaction. The blond man dragged his fingers through his hair and whispered,

"Goodnight. Thank you."

"Goodnight, Mr Malfoy," Hermione said softly. She slid her fingers through Voldemort's, and she let him walk her toward the stairwell.

**Author's Note: Yeah! Hermione got to show off in front of the old school friends! And more Possessive!Voldemort. Now, who's ready to meet Odysseus Siegel? Ready? Mwah hahaha.**

**Thank you, thank you, thank you for reading and a huge thank you for reviewing.**


	17. Good To You

Lord Voldemort blinked his eyes open and stared at the ceiling. Then he remembered that he wasn't alone, and he turned his head a little to see that Hermione Granger was curled up alongside him. Her straightened hair had fallen in front of her eyes as she slept, and Voldemort brushed her locks away so that he could see her face. Her eyes were peacefully shut, her lips parted just a little, and she was lost to sleep.

He'd taken her body twice the night before. One time, he'd been behind her, thrusting quickly and clutching her hips. Then they'd taken a break and talked about dinner, about her Patronus Charm, about Abraxas Malfoy. Thinking about all of that had made Voldemort feel possessively hungry, and so he'd put Hermione on her back and moved atop her, swaying slowly as he pushed into her over and over again. Eventually, she'd come again, a gentle little detonation, and that had triggered Voldemort's own spilling pleasure. He'd kissed her until their lips were bruised and they were out of breath, until their sweat-slicked bodies tangled like vines and their breath mingled and he started to feel sleepy. Then she'd whispered a word rather desperately, a word that had made his stomach coil.

_Stay._

He'd tried to convince both of them that he should leave, that he should make his way back to his own suite. But instead he'd kissed her some more, rubbing at her back and then knitting his fingers through hers. He'd shut his eyes and felt sleep taking him over quickly, even as Hermione's fingers gently stroked his scalp and she whispered that he was going to be the most powerful wizard to ever live. He already was, she told him. Nobody would ever be more powerful than Lord Voldemort, Hermione had purred into the darkness. Voldemort had fallen asleep like that, with her soft words accentuated by the pattering of gentle rain outside the windows, with her touch on his greying hair easing him into oblivion.

Now he woke, and she was the one asleep. He sighed heavily, taken aback by just how beautiful she was. He gazed at her left hand, to the place where she'd removed her wedding rings, and he thought that he should give her something to put there. Not an engagement ring, but something to mark her as his. A ruby ring, he thought. That would be nice. He'd just received a five thousand Galleon donation. He had fresh money; he could go to the jeweller today and get her something nice. It wouldn't be an engagement ring; it would be a ring to denote that she belonged to Lord Voldemort.

A ring of possession.

_Legilimens,_ Voldemort wandlessly incanted, deciding that he wanted to know once and for all what really lay inside Hermione Granger's mind. He pushed into her sleeping head and felt no resistance whatsoever. Her Occlumency was nonexistent whilst she slept. He flicked around, searching for her true intentions. What, he wanted to know, was her true purpose in being here? Why had she come? Had she been happy in the life she'd left behind? What did she really think of Lord Voldemort?

_Hermione was reading the letter from O.S. and friends, her thumb dragging over the Time-Turner. The letter was explaining that Hermione was the only one who could go back in time to change the course of what had happened, to mitigate the suffering that had occurred. The letter was explaining that Hermione needed to find Lord Voldemort at the Masquerade Ball and become his friend, to enact change from within._

Voldemort narrowed his eyes, pushing past the memory and yanking forth something else. He wanted to know what she'd really thought of Albus Dumbledore, what she'd thought of Ron Weasley. Had she been madly in love with the ginger-haired boy she'd married?

_Hermione soaped herself off in the shower, shuddering a little. Sex with Ron was not what she had hoped it would be. She'd always dreamed of sex as a steamy, intimate encounter filled with kisses and moans and pleasure. But with Ron it felt stilted and awkward. With Ron, it felt… wrong._

Voldemort shoved that memory away, thinking that it wasn't for him to witness such a thing. He searched for Dumbledore in Hermione's mind, and he realised witnessing a memory of a memory… or, at least, Hermione was being told about a memory.

_Harry Potter was explaining that Albus Dumbledore had told Severus Snape that Harry Potter had to die, and that Dumbledore had known all along. Snape had been disgusted. Hermione was disgusted. She, not for the first time, doubted just how altruistic Albus Dumbledore really was. Was Dumbledore the hero he'd always been made out to be, or was he just a master manipulator who happened to be on the light side of things?_

Voldemort raised his eyebrows, intrigued. He settled on another memory, of Hermione in her office long after the war. She was thinking, as she so often did.

_Hermione was wondering what Tom Marvolo Riddle could have become if he hadn't made all the mistakes he'd made. If he hadn't forged a path built on the eradication of Muggle-borns, if he hadn't filled the ranks of his Death Eaters with lunatics like Bellatrix Lestrange, if he hadn't been so set on dominating anyone who didn't fit his neat definition of perfection, he could have accomplished something of note, Hermione thought. After all, Tom Riddle had been the most intelligent pupil Hogwarts had ever seen. He had been the most capable adversary Dumbledore had ever faced. He could have been spectacular, Hermione was thinking, if he had just made some different choices._

Voldemort slid out of Hermione's mind, and when he did, her eyes slowly opened. She stared at him, and half her mouth quirked up as she asked softly,

"How long have you been in my head, Master? I reckon that I wasn't dreaming about my office at the Ministry."

"I was snooping. I admit it," Voldemort said. He licked his lips and pushed himself up onto an elbow as he asked, "Why did you marry the Weasley boy?"

Hermione huffed a breath and burrowed her face into her arm. "You've asked me this before, My Lord."

"Mmm. I've yet to receive a satisfactory answer."

"He felt like the only one I was allowed to marry, after everything that happened," Hermione complained. "It didn't feel like I was _able_ to be with anyone else. We started kissing right after the Battle of Hogwarts, and it all just sort of… well, I suppose it just never stopped. He was drunk on our wedding day."

Voldemort scowled. "That's disrespectful."

Hermione's eyes welled, and she shook her head a little. She buried her face against the pillow for a moment, and then she turned toward Voldemort with tears in her eyes.

"He had so much firewhisky I could smell him when I was halfway down the aisle. My father leaned over and whispered to me, _Are you certain?_ Ron was swaying. He slurred his vows; he mixed up words. And then we got home and he couldn't do anything that first night. He was just so catastrophically drunk. I don't think he really wanted it, either. I've no idea why I'm telling you this."

Voldemort felt very uncomfortable all of a sudden. He lay on his back, and Hermione pulled herself up against him. She curled onto his shoulder and whispered,

"What else did you see in my head?"

"The letter from Odysseus Siegel," Voldemort said quietly, petting at her hair. "You thinking badly about your husband. In the shower. Sorry. Erm… your thoughts about Dumbledore after he explained that Harry Potter would have to die to defeat me. And then your thoughts in your office about what I could have done if I'd changed my course of action."

"I see." Hermione's voice was strange, distant. Her mind was closed off now, Voldemort could feel. She was utterly walled off to him. He kissed at her forehead and murmured,

"I've taught you Occlumency far too well, I think."

"Apparently not well enough to keep you out whilst I'm asleep," she whined, pushing herself up onto her hands. She smirked down at Voldemort, and he realised she was still naked from the night before. He let out a long breath as he eyed her small, round breasts, the way her nipples were peaked in the cool air of the bedroom. He felt her put one leg on the other side of his hips, and he tipped his head back, his hands going right to her hips. She started to grind against his cock, and he firmed up beneath her. She moved, swaying deeply against him, and blood rushed to his member. He grunted a little as she reached between them and adjusted things, lining him up and then sinking down. Voldemort immediately marveled that she didn't need a lubrication charm; she was aroused enough to do it on her own.

"Master," Hermione purred, and he forced his eyes to hers. She half-smiled at him and whispered, "Touch me. Please."

"Mmm." He slid his hands up and down her thighs, then around her hips and along her waist and ribcage. All the while, she rocked her hips on him. He was buried to the hilt inside of her, and she was snug and hot around him. Her body was a wet, warm embrace around the most sensitive part of him, and he grasped at her breast as he held her hip for purchase. Her own hands coursed around his chest, fingertips dancing over raised rivers of scars as she leaned forward. She kissed his forehead, and she mumbled against his skin,

"Look into my head now, Master."

"_Legilimens,_" he hummed, and he felt that she'd let down her shields for him. Suddenly he was flooded with an image.

_She was dancing with Lord Voldemort. His hand was pressed to her back, and his fingers were wrapped around hers. He was masked, but she could see that his chin was chipped and that his lips were deeply scarred. She marveled up at him as they swayed, absolutely amazed by the very presence of this man, by his power, by what she knew he could do. He astounded her. He made her feel weak. He made her feel… he made her feel everything at once. He was Lord Voldemort, and she was Hermione Granger, and they were dancing. They were dancing._

Voldemort slipped from Hermione's head and groaned as she ground harder against him. She moved her mouth to his neck and began to kiss him there as she pumped her hips against his. It was too much to bear. She was tight, and wet, and warm, and wonderful. She was brilliant. He'd looked into her mind at her most vulnerable moment, and he'd seen no treachery. She was _his._

He came so hard he couldn't breathe for a moment. He saw spots, and his ears rang loudly. After a few seconds, the explosive pleasure gave way to a forceful wave of satisfaction, flowing through his veins and making him gasp for air. He planted his hands on Hermione's back and kissed at her cheek as he whispered,

"Beautiful, brilliant witch that you are…"

"Mmph!" She bucked her hips wildly on his softening cock, and he'd almost slid out of her when he felt her twitching and contracting with her own eventual climax. She squealed a little against his neck and then huffed a mighty breath, collapsing onto his chest and letting him wrap his arms around her.

Yes, he thought as she made her way to her bathroom for a desperately-needed shower. She needed a piece of jewellery to claim her as his. She needed something to mark her as his own. Because if Hermione Granger was anything, she was the weapon and the witch of the Dark Lord himself.

That much, he knew, was unequivocally true.

* * *

Voldemort strode into Agate and Sons Jewellery in Diagon Alley, his breath shaking just a little as he did. He had brought with him a certified cheque from Gringotts Bank, authorising the transfer of funds from Tom Marvolo Riddle's vault to that of Agate and Sons. Now he swept into the store, wearing elegant winter robes in deep midnight blue, and a little bell tinkled overhead.

"Ah! Mr Riddle," said a warm-voiced wizard from behind the counter. This store was far more brightly-lit than most on Diagon Alley, and more spacious, for the jewellers wanted good light to show off the sparkle of their diamonds and gems. Voldemort cleared his throat and said,

"Good day, Mr Agate. I've come looking for a ruby ring. I wonder if you've anything of interest."

"A ruby ring? I've got several," smiled Mr Agate, pushing his black-rimmed glasses up his nose. His frizzy grey hair stuck out in every direction, and he smiled broadly, almost like a madman. He gestured to one of his glass cases and said, "If you'll step this way. Now. Do you know the size of the finger of the witch or wizard who will be wearing the ring?"

"Witch," Voldemort said at once. "I'm not exactly certain, but I'm confident enough in my metalworking magic to resize a gold band if I need to."

"Ah. Of course. I've heard much about your skill." Mr Agate adjusted his glasses again, and Voldemort was tempted to rip them off the man's face and just fix the sizing of _those_. He flicked the corners of his lips up and asked,

"So you've a few ruby rings to show me?"

"Naturally! I assume the colour scheme you're searching for is ruby, gold, and diamond? How about this one?"

He pulled out a rather gaudy-looking ring with a large rectangular ruby surrounded by triangular diamonds, set in a thick gold band. Voldemort scowled and shook his head.

"No, that doesn't suit her at all," he said. "She is at once beautiful but fierce, like a rose crafted of iron."

"My goodness. Quite a witch," murmured Mr Agate. He rifled around in the glass display case and then pulled out another ring. He held it up for Voldemort's approval, and Voldemort felt his eyebrows flick up in interest. He took the ring from Mr Agate and studied it. The gold band on this one was simpler, more delicate. The centre stone was a round, very clear ruby surrounded by tiny round diamonds in a halo. The design of the ring was elegant, vintage, feminine, but not fussy. It seemed like something Hermione would like. Voldemort cleared his throat rather roughly and asked,

"Would this be an appropriate gift for a witch to whom one was not… what I mean to say is, would this make a good gift for… erm…"

"It would make an excellent gift for any witch, I think," Mr Agate said lightly. "Just remember that the fourth ring of the left hand is for engagement and wedding rings. A ring like this, if not intended for engagement, would do well on the fourth finger of the right hand, sir."

"Ah. Yes. I see." Voldemort pinched his lips. His cheeks went a bit hot, and he nodded. "I shall take it. Thank you."

The ring cost a small fortune - five hundred Galleons - and as Voldemort wrote out the cheque from Gringotts, his fingers shook a little around the quill. He'd never been rich. He'd never had real means. He must be a fool, he thought as Mr Agate packaged up Hermione's ring, to spend this sort of money on a trinket for a time traveller. He'd gone completely mad, and over a woman, no less.

But that didn't stop him from accepting the little bag with the boxed-up ring inside and walking out into Diagon Alley. It was chilly, and a strong wind was blowing. Voldemort was about to Disapparate back to Malfoy Manor when he froze. To his left, just five or six steps away, stood a very old wizard whose long, silky white hair blew in the wind. He wore silvery robes that fluttered in the cold air, and his face was wizened and crinkled with age. Voldemort knew this man well, or at least, he'd once known him well.

Odysseus Siegel.

Voldemort took a few steps toward Odysseus and nodded.

"You've come," he said, and Odysseus' lips curled up. His lavender eyes flicked to the bag from the jewellery shop in Voldemort's hand, and he said warmly,

"Plainly, so has she."

Voldemort felt his face go hot, and he coughed a little. "It's just a little present," he insisted.

"Has she done well for you so far?" Odysseus asked. Voldemort cocked up an eyebrow and announced,

"James Potter is dead."

"Yes. I saw the _Daily Prophet,_" Odysseus said, nodding slowly. "And has she spoken to you about making a place for Muggle-borns, about including Beasts and Beings?"

Voldemort gulped. "Yes."

"You've seen what will happen if you do the things you had planned the way you'd planned them," Odysseus said. "You saw it all in her head."

"Why didn't you just come back and show me yourself?" Voldemort asked bluntly. "You were my friend. If you travelled to that time and saw the destruction of my body and soul, why didn't you just come back and show me your own memories to warn me?"

"Because," Odysseus said, tipping his head, "I've seen all of this, too. Believe me… you won't have wanted to miss what comes next. You'll be very thankful that it was her and not me who came for you."

"Come to Malfoy Manor," Voldemort insisted. "Come and stay with us. Have dinner. I want you to meet her."

"I must not." Odysseus shook his head. He spared a wistful look at the bag and smiled a little, and he chuckled. "Gryffindor colours. Ruby and gold. You've always had a mind for detail."

Voldemort swallowed hard and shrugged a little desperately. "But you can't just leave. You must give me answers."

"She has all the information you will need," Odysseus promised, "and, I believe, you searched her mind and found no malice. Am I correct?"

"How did you know that?" Voldemort felt cold then, and Odysseus narrowed his eyes.

"You are a very gifted wizard, Lord Voldemort, but you are not the only one with gifts. Never forget that. Not ever. Now. I must go, and so must you. Listen to Hermione. She will do well for you. And she is good for you. For you soul. She will heal you, if you will allow it. Hmm. It has been good to see you. We'll meet again. Goodbye."

He started to walk off, his steps slow but steady. Voldemort seethed through his nose and dashed after the old man.

"Odysseus!" he cried, but when he reached for the ancient wizard, his hand went straight through Odysseus' robes, as though he were touching a veil, an illusion. Odysseus suddenly disappeared, vanishing into the air as though he'd never been there. Voldemort stared at the spot where Odysseus had been, and then a witch hurried by and called behind her,

"Come on, Severus. Just a few more errands to run."

"Mum, I'm hungry. Can we get lunch at the Leaky Cauldron?" asked a little black-haired boy running behind the witch. Voldemort stared. Severus Snape. He recognised the boy's face from Hermione's memories of him as an older wizard. The witch scoffed and spat,

"You think we've got money for lunch at the damned Leaky Cauldron, Severus? You'll be having broth again today."

"Eileen Prince?" Voldemort called. The witch whirled and staggered backward a few steps. Her eyes went wide, and she seemed to process that the man speaking to her was Lord Voldemort.

"Tom Riddle," she said nervously. "Haven't seen you since our old school days."

"No, indeed not." Voldemort approached the witch and her son. Eileen Prince had been several years younger than Tom Riddle in school, and he'd not given her the time of day. But now he reached into his pocket and pulled out a few Galleons, and he passed them to the little boy.

"Severus, isn't it? This is for lunch. A gift from Lord Voldemort. Remember it well. I've heard you're a bright young lad. Be good to that Muggle girl you play with… Lily, is it? She should always be your very best friend, do you hear me, boy? She'll be very good to you."

"Yes, sir." Severus wrapped his fingers around the Galleons, seemingly in shock. Eileen looked like she didn't know what to say, and in her mind Voldemort sensed that she was going to take the money to Madam Malkin's to get herself new stockings. So Voldemort cleared his throat and said gruffly,

"That's for lunch, Eileen."

"Y-Yes, sir." Eileen glanced down to Severus and then back up to Voldemort. "Thank you, sir."

"Good to see the both of you." Voldemort stalked away from them and Disapparated mid-step, leaving Diagon Alley as a flourish of midnight blue.

**Author's Note: Ahhh! He looked into Hermione's head while she was sleeping (and her thoughts didn't contain anything incriminating… what does **_**that**_ **say about Hermione at this point?) He bought her a ring to claim her as his. We met Odysseus Siegel. **_**And**_ **Voldemort told Severus Snape to be good to Lily Evans. Lots to unpack here! Whew!**

**Would love to know your thoughts on this chapter. Thanks for reading.**


	18. I Belong to the Dark Lord

"Good morning, Madame Granger," said Sylvie Malfoy. Hermione looked up from the book she was reading in the library to see Sylvie in the doorway. She shut the book, a tome about goblin history, and stood from her chair.

"Madame Malfoy," she said. "Morning."

"I have come to speak as women," said Sylvie plainly. She shut the door behind her and swept into the library. She was dressed like a peacock, Hermione thought. Her gown, an elegant creation of silk in blue, emerald, and violet, hugged Sylvie's curves and swept around her in beautiful swoops. Sylvie's hair had been drawn up into a smooth updo from which tight curls descended. She'd put on a graceful application of makeup, and she wore a simple but evidently expensive strand of champagne pearls. She was always pretty, Hermione thought, but Sylvie looked even more beautiful today than usual. She made Hermione feel young, though of course Hermione was a fully-grown witch in her mid-twenties, for she was standing in a knee-length brown wool dress with her hair hanging loose and wild around her shoulders.

"What would you like to talk about?" Hermione asked, though she thought she had some idea. She sat back down as Sylvie approached the chair opposite Hermione's. Sylvie sat on the edge of the chair, perched just so, and cleared her throat. She tipped her head and said,

"I know that my husband is attracted to you. It's very obvious."

"I…" Hermione licked her lips and shook her head. "I wouldn't know, Madame Malfoy."

"No?" Sylvie scoffed. "I don't believe that for a moment. I think Lord Voldemort is quite upset about it. Probably, that will fade, once Bellatrix Black comes home for Christmas and is falling all over him. Things are about to get very… messy."

"Messy," Hermione repeated. She narrowed her eyes. Sylvie pinched her lips and said,

"I propose that you and I make a pact, Madame Granger, to keep our wizards in check. You see, I've got a husband falling all over our houseguest, and you've got Lord Voldemort about to be _very_ tempted by a young witch who wants nothing more than to rip off her clothes for him. Yes, Cissy's told us all about the way Bellatrix talks of Lord Voldemort. We are well aware that she desires nothing more than him."

An ugly coil formed in Hermione's stomach. Jealousy. Dominion. She felt like Voldemort belonged to her, at least a little bit, and the idea of him climbing into bed with Bellatrix made her feel nauseated. She read Sylvie's face then as the other witch settled into a rather prim expression and said,

"The next time you get the sense that Abraxas is lusting after you, I would be grateful if you would send him a very clear message that his feelings are not wanted. At all. In return, I will work with my friend Abigail Lestrange. Raddox's wife. Her son Rodolphus is engaged to marry Bellatrix. I'll tell Abigail that it's very important for Rodolphus to properly woo Bellatrix, to show her all sorts of affection and to romance her. And at the grand Christmas party we're hosting, we'll have all three of the Black sisters dance first, with their respective partners. Cissy will dance with Lucius, of course. Andromeda can dance with Avery's boy. And Bellatrix will dance with Rodolphus. I'll dance with Abraxas, as the hosts. You'll dance with Lord Voldemort, as honoured guests. It will set the tone for the holidays."

"Why are you conspiring with me?" Hermione asked. "You hate me, Sylvie."

Sylvie Malfoy sniffed and shook her head. "I do not _hate_ you. That's a very strong word. I feel that it was wrong of Abraxas to so willingly accept an open-ended hosting of a… a…"

"Muggle-born," Hermione finished, glaring. Sylvie Malfoy pursed her lips and argued,

"An unknown witch. None of us know you. But we trust Lord Voldemort. And we all saw you cast the Patronus Charm. And he says you are gifted with your mind. We believe that he knows best. If he cares deeply for you, then let him cling to you and eschew Bellatrix. Let me have Abraxas. I have loved him for twenty-five years; I can not yield him to someone who has come to stay in a suite in our home, crashed out of the sky."

Hermione nodded. "We shall work together, then," she said. "At the Christmas party, I shall dance with the Dark Lord, and you shall dance with Abraxas. Bellatrix will be with Rodolphus. And it will be very clear where everyone stands."

"Very clear indeed," Sylvie said. She hesitated a moment and then asked carefully. "You and Abraxas haven't… the two of you have not…?"

"No. Of course not." Hermione practically spat the words. "My loyalty lies fully with Lord Voldemort."

She realised as soon as she said those words that they were… they were true. Her stomach went cold, and her mind whirled a little. She shut her eyes and repeated,

"I belong to the Dark Lord."

"And my heart belongs to Abraxas Malfoy," Sylvie said. When Hermione opened her eyes, she saw that Sylvie was on the verge of tears. She seemed relieved as she whispered, "Thank you for speaking with me, Madame Granger."

* * *

The next evening, Hermione walked into the violet parlour to see that Voldemort was standing at the window, a letter in his hands. He was reading the letter, and he seemed very intent. Hermione stepped into the room, and she heard him say quietly,

"I thought you'd be here twenty minutes ago. Shall I send for the food now?"

"I'm sorry, Master. I got caught up in the book I was reading," Hermione admitted. "I've been reading all day."

"You do so enjoy books." He stared down at the parchment in his hands and huffed a breath. He held the letter out to Hermione wordlessly and said, "I think you ought to read this."

She stepped up to him and plucked the letter out of his fingers. She began to read, and as she did, her brows furrowed deeper and deeper.

_Dear Mr Riddle:_

_My office has quietly but formally opened an investigation to determine the origin of one Hermione Granger. Whilst the Ministry of Magic currently lacks sufficient evidence to force its way into Malfoy Manor, where she is believed to be in residence, it is of the utmost importance that I am able to speak with Madam Granger as soon as possible. Mr Abraxas Malfoy has agreed to meet with me to discuss the particulars of arranging a meeting at Malfoy Manor or to bring Madam Granger to the Ministry. We hope that you will cooperate fully with the investigation, and that Madam Granger shares all relevant information with the Ministry._

_Sincerely,_

_Minister for Magic Nobby Leach_

Hermione gulped and stared at Voldemort. "When did you receive this letter?"

"Yesterday," he said. He gave her a hard look and said, "Abraxas Malfoy was in Minister Leach's office today. On my orders, Abraxas Imperiused Leach into drinking a poison I invented and concocted. It will cause Leach to come down with a serious, non-fatal illness that will force him out of office. He will recommend that his place be taken by Eugenia Jenkins, who makes for a much weaker adversary."

Hermione blinked. This was _off_, but it wasn't completely different. In the history she knew, Minister Nobby Leach had been in charge during the Squibs' Rights marches of the late 1960s, then had resigned from office in 1968 after taking ill mysteriously. There had been rumours, she knew, that Abraxas Malfoy had been involved. But surely it had nothing to do with a time traveller. She scowled up at Voldemort and said,

"This is odd. Leach was forced out of office in my lived experience, too, but not for these reasons."

"Well, perhaps he really does have to go," Voldemort suggested. He shrugged. "By tonight, Leach will be admitted to St Mungo's, where they will struggle to figure out what's behind his array of symptoms. They won't get to the bottom of it. Jenkins will be in office within a few weeks. And Dumbledore has never been close with Jenkins. She won't listen to him when he insists there's a time traveller whose mind he's read."

"How can you be certain of that?" Hermione fretted. "What if she believes Dumbledore?"

"Nott and Avery are visiting her tonight," Voldemort said patiently. "They're going to do a bit of memory work; Avery's especially skilled with it. She's going to have her impression of Dumbledore altered so that she thinks he's a bit of an old crock. Not a lunatic, just… not to be fully believed about matters like this. Jenkins will ignore Dumbledore's ramblings. He'll sound insane if he goes on about it."

"What if one of your friends leaks my name?" Hermione worried. "What if Dumbledore and, say, Bellatrix Black cross paths at the _Daily Prophet_ and say, _Oh, yes, there's this Muggle-born witch on Lord Voldemort's arm who's appeared out of nowhere, and Dumbledore's been in her head? _The newspaper would eat that story alive!"

"Hermione," Voldemort said quietly. "I've thought about the press. The editor of the _Daily Prophet_ is a Yaxley. I've offered him three thousand Galleons in hush money to never, ever print the name _Hermione Granger_ in the newspaper. He's gladly accepted. And if he does print your name, he's aware he'll be on the receiving end of an Unforgivable. So."

"You're covering all your tracks," Hermione said breathlessly. "The Ministry. Dumbledore. Bellatrix. The newspaper."

"You are going to be my weapon, whether they like it or not," Voldemort said slickly. He snatched the letter back from her and Vanished it, and then he bent down and kissed her forehead. "I'm famished. Shall we eat?"

Dinner was roast chicken and rice with asparagus, a simple but tasty meal that left Hermione full. She sipped at her white wine and eyed the piano. Her Occlumency shields slipped just a little, and she considered that she might like to hear Voldemort play her something.

"Have I told you about the time I played for the couple in the orphanage?" Voldemort asked. He dragged the pad of his middle finger around the rim of his wine glass, and Hermione shook her head, curious. Voldemort picked up his glass and drank, and then he said,

"I was nine years old. Too old, by the standard of most orphanages, to get adopted. Most people want babies. Some will take a five-year-old. But nine? No. You have to _really_ impress them if you want to get adopted at age nine. Well. One day this couple came in and said they would like a playmate for their only child, a boy of ten. He was a burly brute, came in with them. As stupid as a sack of bricks, the boy was. But the couple liked me, because I spoke eloquently and they thought perhaps being around me would make their son more intelligent."

"I don't think it works like that." Hermione gave him a sad little smile. Voldemort shrugged one shoulder.

"To get out of the orphanage, I was willing to try anything. So, I bragged to them that I was particularly good at the piano, and asked if they'd like to hear me play. The orphanage's piano was a bit out of tune; they couldn't afford to get it tuned as often as they should have done. Anyway. The couple and their boy sat down on the divan and listened as I played. Chopin. _Nocturne in E Flat Major. _And I finished, and the other orphans were watching from the corridor, smiling. And the matrons clapped."

His face was wistful and distant then, and he scoffed quietly. He drank the rest of his wine. Hermione swallowed hard and asked,

"What did the couple and their son say?"

"_He just isn't the right fit for our family. Thank you. Good day._ And then they left. No matter; I was at Hogwarts two years later."

Suddenly it didn't feel like the right thing to do to ask him to play for her. She just breathed for a moment, let his story settle, and then she noticed something.

"Your lip," she said in disbelief. He shook his head, and she actually pointed right at his face. "Your… your mouth."

"What's wrong with my mouth?" he demanded. Hermione flew from her chair and stormed around the table, seizing his face in her hands and turning his face toward her. He seemed shocked by what she was doing until she whispered,

"Your scar is gone. On your lips."

He reached up and brushed his thumb over his mouth, over the place where the raised white scar tissue had been. He gasped when he felt the smooth lips beneath, and he asked her hoarsely,

"Is it really not there?"

"No. It's gone." Hermione flew back as he heaved himself to his feet and began to peel off his outer robe. She helped him frantically unbutton his linen shirt beneath, and when they pushed it off of his shoulders, her breath shook. The huge gash of a scar that cut through his bicep was gone, as was the deep river of scarring along his lower abdomen. Some of the other white scars were there, but it seemed as though…

"It's like you're _healing_," Hermione said disbelievingly. She raised her eyes, and she blinked a few times. "Your eyelid isn't drooping nearly so badly as usual. I'm not imagining that."

"I…" Voldemort pinched his lips tightly and shook his head. "Odysseus…"

Hermione's eyes burned as she put her hands to Voldemort's bare chest. "What about Odysseus?"

"Nothing." Voldemort shut his eyes and bent down, reaching for his shirt. He pulled it back on and began to button it back up. "I'm sure the scars will come back. The damage from creating Horcruxes is deep and permanent. My soul is wounded to its core from all the splintering. There's no real healing that can be done."

"Not even when someone cares about you?" Hermione demanded. Voldemort's fingers froze on the buttons of his shirt, and his breath came heavy and shallow for a moment before he finished closing up the garment. Then he whispered,

"I've got something for you."

"You have?" Hermione's chest and stomach were fluttering. She felt queasy for some reason she couldn't articulate. She watched as Voldemort reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out something out in his fist. He reached for Hermione's right hand and pushed something onto the fourth finger, and then she couldn't breathe. He pulled his hand away, revealing a beautiful ring of gold, ruby, and diamond. It was _perfect_ \- a round stone surrounded by a halo of diamonds on a delicate gold band. Hermione's eyes welled with tears that boiled over at once, and suddenly she let down her Occlumency shields and pushed forth every thought that was rocketing through her mind.

_I didn't come here to fall for you. I came here to change you. To change history. I came here to save people; I didn't come here to want you, to crave you, to need you. But here I am, head over heels for you, mad for you. I never expected to feel anything like this for you. I hope you realise that._

"Hermione." He took her face in his hands and bent as she closed her mind off again, a final scarlet flare of desire coursing from her mind into his. She sank into his kiss, pressing her hands against his chest and realising that his scars were fading as she fell harder and harder for him. The more she cared for him, the less damaged his body and soul were. What did that mean? What did it mean that he was scheming to oust the Minister for Magic to protect Hermione, and she no longer cared about things like coups and assassinations? What did any of this mean?

He kissed her for a very long while, backing her up toward the wall, and she became a little breathless. Finally, they neared the piano, and he pulled his mouth away, whispering,

"Shall I play for you?"

"Yes," she whispered. "All the time."

He pulled his body from hers, moving over to the piano bench and opening the instrument. He cleared his throat and put his fingers to the keys. The moment he began to play, Hermione recognised the piece. Chopin. _Nocturne in E Flat Major. _It was the piece he'd played in the orphanage. The piece that the couple hadn't cared about when he'd been a talented little boy with an out-of-tune piano.

Hermione cared now, listening to him play Chopin whilst she stared at his face and studied his perfect lips. She examined the place where his scar had been and wondered just how it had disappeared. Was she responsible in any way? She looked to her right hand, to the place where he'd put a ruby ring upon her finger, and she thought that he'd claimed her. She thought back to talking with Sylvie, to how they'd claimed their wizards. They belonged to one another now, she thought.

_I belong to the Dark Lord._

She listened to Voldemort finish off the Nocturne with a trill, a descending flourish, and then the final chords. She raised her eyes to him, to his gaze that seemed more clear now than ever, and she whispered,

"I think that I am in love with you."

He curled up his lips and shut the piano.

**Author's Note: Welp. One of them had to say it, and we all know he wouldn't use the word first. Raise your hand if you predicted Sylvie and Hermione teaming up? Nobody? Okay. Haha. Let's see how things shape up at the Ministry with this coup against Nobby Leach, and how Bellatrix takes it when she's forced away from Voldemort and into Rodolphus' arms. **

**Thank you so very much for the feedback on the last chapter. I'm so grateful. I'd love to know your thoughts as you continue reading.**


	19. Had It Coming

_18 December 1968_

"The owls certainly had much for you this morning, sir," said Dobby a bit nervously, dropping an armload of envelopes and scrolls onto Lord Voldemort's desk. "Much news, much news. Can Dobby bring you any tea, sir?"

"No. I'll have some whisky. You may go." Voldemort sniffed and stared at the pile of mail. Dobby Disapparated with a _crack_, and Voldemort considered whether or not he ought to bring Hermione in to look over all of this. But she was with Sylvie Malfoy playing cards, he knew, and he didn't want to interrupt them. The two of them had begun to bond over the last days, and the very last thing on Earth Voldemort wished to do was to come between that.

He rose from his desk and went over to his drinks cart, and he poured himself a few fingers of firewhisky. He corked the bottle and carried his drink over to his desk, realising he was drinking at nine in the morning and not caring. Today, he knew, was a day for celebration. He would have his damned whisky.

Indeed, the first thing he opened was a copy of the _Daily Prophet, _and he smirked when he saw the headline. There, in blaring black letters, it announced,

_EUGENIA JENKINS REPLACES AILING NOBBY LEACH AS MINISTER FOR MAGIC!_

_Yesterday afternoon, the Office of the Minister for Magic confirmed that Eugenia Jenkins has been officially sworn in as the new Minister after Nobby Leach formally resigned his post due to ongoing health concerns. Mr Leach has been inpatient at St Mungo's Hospital for some time with a mysterious illness whose origins and pathology have eluded even the most gifted Healers of the community. Though Leach was checked for Curses and poisons, Healers have confirmed that he is ill with some sort of Magical disease. They continue work to put him to rights, but in the meantime, Leach has permanently resigned from the office of Minister for Magic. _

'_I have every confidence that Madam Jenkins will serve wizarding Britain admirably in my place,' Leach said in a prepared statement from St Mungo's. 'She will confront ongoing issues, such as Squibs' Rights and the riots accompanying their marches. She will work well with wizarding America as they shape their post-Rappaport society. She will do brilliant work as the Minister for Magic.'_

_In response, Minister Jenkins issued a statement of her own. 'I am most grateful for all that Minister Nobby Leach has done for Magical Britain, and I wish him nothing but the best on his road to recovery. I do vow to serve our community with fervent dedication. All who count themselves as part of wizarding Britain can rely on me as your Minister to serve you.'_

_We at the Daily Prophet wish Minister Jenkins all success in her endeavour at the highest level of administrative work._

Voldemort set down the newspaper and picked up the first letter Dobby had brought. He broke the seal on the back and pulled out the letter inside. He opened it and read,

_Dear Sir:_

_Rest assured that our deal stands firm. The Daily Prophet is your ally._

_Sincerely, Cravian Yaxley_

Voldemort tapped that letter and brought out a parchment, scratching a reply that he appreciated Yaxley's support and knew who his true friends were, that loyalty would be remembered. He sealed up the letter and addressed it to the Editor's Office at the newspaper, and he set it aside. He opened the next letter, a little card from Augustus Rookwood congratulating Voldemort on the 'change of scenery' at the Ministry of Magic. Voldemort curled up his lips and scribbled a reply, joking to Rookwood that he quite liked the new view. He opened another letter, and this one ought not to have surprised him, but it did.

_Dear Tom,_

_If you think I don't know that you're behind all of this, you're wrong. Somehow, I will prove what is happening. Curses and spells and poisons can all be reversed, as I'm sure you're aware. I know that you've masterminded all of this, and I will not allow you to get away with it._

_Albus Dumbledore_

Voldemort's blood went cold. He gulped, and then a wild thought crossed through his mind. Albus Dumbledore was in the way. Albus Dumbledore needed to die. Somehow, he needed to kill Dumbledore. It wouldn't be easy. Even Grindelwald had not been able to defeat Dumbledore. Voldemort knew, intellectually, that Dumbledore was one of the most powerful wizards who had ever lived. It had taken a complex assassination plot in Hermione's lived existence for the man to wind up hurtling off the Astronomy Tower at Hogwarts. And Dumbledore had only let himself die because he'd already been Cursed by Voldemort's ring Horcrux. But here… here, Dumbledore would not give up so easily. He would not give up without a fight. Voldemort would need to work carefully if he planned on eliminating the man. But Dumbledore was nothing if not meddlesome; he'd always been meddlesome. Always. When Tom Riddle had been a boy, Dumbledore had tangled in his plots. In Hermione's world, Dumbledore had always interfered. Hovering, snooping, butting in where he didn't belong. He was an unwanted creature, Voldemort thought, and he needed to go. He was making it very difficult for Voldemort to control the situation at the Ministry, for Voldemort to keep Hermione safe.

And, much more deeply than he ever would have anticipated doing, Voldemort did care about keeping Hermione Granger safe.

He jolted as he considered that he was going to kill Albus Dumbledore, for there was knocking on his office door. He frowned, for the knocking was quick and urgent. He pushed out with Legilimency, expecting to find Hermione's wall of defence. Instead, he encountered a manic swirl of nerves.

Bellatrix.

"One moment," Voldemort called. He quickly packed up all the letters on his desk, bundling them with the newspaper and shoving them into one of his drawers. He contemplated Vanishing his firewhisky so that he didn't look like an alcoholic drinking in the morning, but then he realised he didn't care what anybody thought about his habits. He cleared his throat and called, "Enter."

The door to the office opened, and Bellatrix Black appeared. She walked into the office slowly, shutting the door behind her. She'd tried to make herself look pretty today, Voldemort thought at once. She'd worn a long dress of black velvet, cut low to reveal the gentle swell of her small breasts. Her boot heels clacked on his wooden floor as she stepped forward, and she gently pushed her wild mane of dark curls from her face. She stared at Voldemort, her eyes rimmed heavily with liner and her lips painted plum. She'd certainly tried, he thought. He sighed and said,

"Morning, Bella."

"Good morning… My Lord." She'd heard Hermione say that, Voldemort sensed from her, and she thought she ought to use the term, too. She folded her hands before her and said quietly, "Quite the stir. New Minister for Magic and all."

"Yes. It's all keeping me rather occupied." Voldemort dragged a finger around the rim of his whisky tumbler. "I see you're home from school."

"Just yesterday," Bellatrix affirmed. She shifted on her feet and complained, "I'd much prefer to enter your service full-time and to leave school."

"There isn't much to do in my service yet," Voldemort said, bringing his glass to his lips. "Battles and all of that goodness will come later, Bella."

_I am so hungry for him that I am like a starving woman facing a steak,_ she thought abruptly, and Voldemort furrowed his brows as he set down his glass on his desk. She was studying his face closely. _He's not as scarred. Some of his scars are gone. His eye isn't drooping. He looks more handsome than ever. When did he get that pink flush in his skin? Are his eyes glinting? He seems younger._

"I was actually in the middle of quite a lot of correspondence when you arrived," Voldemort said lightly. "I'm more than happy to assist you if there's something specific you need."

"I just wanted to talk, My Lord," Bellatrix told him. She stepped closer to her desk and licked her lips. "I just wanted to… offer myself to you."

He sputtered a little, clearing his throat roughly. "I'm sorry?"

"I wanted to offer to not return to Hogwarts," Bellatrix said in a firm, harsh voice. "Hermione Granger is in your service full-time, and I thought that I -"

"You are a seventeen-year-old girl," Voldemort hissed back, "and she is _with_ me, you understand. It's very different. I'll be more than happy to accept you as an ally once you've finished your education, Bellatrix, but for now, you're a sixth-year Slytherin and I am a wizard possessed by a witch. Are we quite clear about all that?"

Bellatrix gnawed her lip but nodded. "Yes, My Lord. Very clear."

_I hate that Granger bitch so much that I can't think. What if I just… what if she were to…_

Suddenly Voldemort had flown to his feet, snatched his wand out of his robes, and aimed it at Bellatrix. She shrank back, terrified of him, and the tip of his wand quivered. Her black eyes went very round, and she seemed to realise her mind had wandered off without her knowing it. Voldemort snarled in a low breath,

"_Legilimens._"

He pawed through Bellatrix's thoughts. He saw her cleaning her teeth in the Slytherin girls' dormitory, her hair tied in a messy braid as the other girls chatted at sinks beside her. He saw her half-heartedly raise her hand in Potions and answer a question correctly, earning Slytherin five points. He saw her shove at the shoulder of a Gryffindor enemy as they descended the staircase, causing the girl to stumble and swear. And then he yanked forth an idea, a pervasive thought that had plagued Bellatrix's mind ever since she'd first met Hermione Granger at Irma Black's funeral.

_I want that awful bitch dead. I want her gone. Mudblood scum. She's nowhere near good enough for him. I'd show him real pleasure. There's nothing she could ever do for him that could match what I'd give him. He's better off without her. I will eradicate her, and I will -_

"_CRUCIO!"_

A scarlet web of ight blasted forth from Voldemort's wand and snapped through the air, enveloping Bellatrix in a glowing net. She immediately fell to the ground and began shrieking in terror, writhing around, her back arching. She clawed at the wooden floor and slammed her head against the ground, teeth gnashing, eyes wrenched shut. She let out an almighty, blood-curdling scream so loud that Voldemort knew everyone would hear, but he didn't care. She rolled to her left and vomited on the floor, but still he held the spell.

It felt good, he thought, to do this. Torturing someone because they wanted to hurt the person he adored felt good. Pleasure flushed through his veins, and he actually went a bit hard in his trousers. He stalked around Bellatrix's body and watched as she convulsed and went white as a sheet. Still he held the spell. She screamed again, a chilling, nightmarish noise erupting from her as she clawed viciously at the ground. Finally, _finally_, Voldemort snapped his wand back, and then there was banging on his office door.

"My Lord?" cried Hermione's voice from the corridor. "My Lord, are you all right? May I come in?"

He stayed silent and stared at Bellatrix, who lay on her side facing a puddle of sick. He sniffed and used a jerk of his wand to open the door. Hermione came rushing inside, and then she froze when she saw Bellatrix lying on the ground. She stared for a moment, and then she raised her eyes to Voldemort. She shook her head and whispered,

"Why?"

"Because she wanted you dead," he said simply. He twirled his wand in his hand, spinning it expertly between his fingers, and tipped his chin up. He sniffed again and shrugged. "The wretched, jealous child wanted to replace you."

Hermione walked slowly toward Bellatrix and pulled out her own wand. For a brief, rather confusing moment, Voldemort thought that Hermione was going to murder Bellatrix Black. But then Hermione crouched down and aimed her wand at the puddle of vomit, murmuring,

"_Tergeo."_

The mess was Siphoned up, and then Hermione used her wand to Scour Bellatrix's face of sick and spittle. Bellatrix moaned and panted, clutching at the hem of Hermione's skirt. She shook her head and whimpered,

"N-No more."

"Hush now," Hermione pulled at Bellatrix's elbow and began hauling Bellatrix up to stand. Bellatrix moved with great difficulty, and when at last she stood, she wobbled and nearly careened over. Hermione let her lean upon her, and she said over her shoulder to Voldemort,

"Just going to take Miss Black to the violet parlour to get her some tea before she goes home, My Lord."

"Quite so." Voldemort felt numb as Hermione led Bellatrix out of the office. He quietly shut the door behind them, and then he went back to his desk and knocked back the entire glass of firewhisky in two big gulps. He slammed down the empty tumbler and sat, wrenching open his drawer and pulling out the letter from Albus Dumbledore. He read it again and shut his eyes. Enemies everywhere, he thought, and allies, too.

"Enter," he said, when he heard gentle knocking on his door. Hermione came walking with her face tipped up, looking oddly serene as she approached his desk. She pulled out the chair opposite him and said,

"Abraxas Malfoy took her back to Cygnus and Druella. She was too weak to go by herself. I… very obliquely… explained to Abraxas that she'd been punished for displeasing you."

"Hmm." Voldemort pinched his lips. "And why didn't you just insist that I kill her?"

"Because, My Lord, executing a young witch known to be catastrophically loyal to you? A member of the House of Black? What would do to your movement?" Hermione gave him a sad little smile and toyed with the ring on her right finger. "I know where I stand. Now Bellatrix knows everyone's place, too."

Voldemort licked his lips and said coolly, "Dumbledore is a liability."

"I was wondering when you would say that," Hermione sighed. "The moment I realised he'd been in my head, I knew he'd signed his own death warrant."

Voldemort narrowed his eyes. "So you've no objection…?"

Hermione pursed her lips and shut her eyes. "I came back here to change the course of history. To make things better. To ease suffering. To ensure your victory. Dumbledore died in my time, too. This is just like James Potter. Earlier than expected, but… only, I want you to be very careful, Master, because -"

"Don't call me that." He cleared his throat a little and shook his head. Hermione looked surprised.

"Surely you don't want me to call you _Tom?_"

"I… I don't have a good idea yet," Voldemort said, drumming his fingers on his desk. "I'm open to ideas. _My Lord_ in public, certainly, to denote deference. But in private, when you're with me in bed… I put a ring on your hand, Hermione. You're not a damned House-Elf."

His cheeks went very hot then, and he realised there was something itching inside of his throat, inside of his mind. Something was roaring in his brain, insisting upon being spoken, but he couldn't bring himself to say it. He coughed into his fist and whispered,

"Come up with something else."

"You were Tom Riddle for nearly your entire life," Hermione said softly. "Perhaps to everyone else, you could be Lord Voldemort, but to me, you could be Tom. You've never been Tom to me. Not really. I never knew the handsome boy at Hogwarts. To me, Lord Voldemort was a terrifying villain. I've come round on that, obviously. But perhaps…"

He shut his eyes and tried to imagine it, to picture her moving with him beneath the sheets, rasping his name into the darkness. _Tom. _He tried to see himself shaving at his sink in the morning, with her leaning against the doorjamb in nothing but her knickers. _Morning, Tom._ He tried to see himself playing piano for her, her arms snaring around her from behind as she kissed his cheek and whispered into his ear, _I'm yours, Tom._

He'd always hated the name. It had always felt dirty and Muggle and unworthy. But for some reason, it seemed like the right syllable for her to say to him. _Master_, in those moments, did not feel right. Not from her. Not anymore. _Tom._

"Tom." He opened his eyes and nodded. "But only in private. And only you."

She smiled a little, her eyes fluttering. She played with her ruby ring again and let out a shaking breath. She pushed back her chair and rose, walking around the desk and approaching him. He turned his chair and let her straddle him, let her climb onto his lap and wrap her arms around his shoulders. She kissed him lightly and then giggled against his lips,

"You smell like you've been drinking already."

"I have. I was celebrating Eugenia Jenkins' new tenure," Voldemort shrugged. "Then Bellatrix showed up, so… she rather ruined everything."

"I'm only sorry that she had to feel that much pain to get clarification," Hermione said, her voice low. "I don't wish that sort of pain on anybody. Truly."

"That is because you are a genuinely good person," Voldemort huffed, "and there aren't many of those about."

He kissed her again, and she murmured onto her mouth, "Please don't get hurt trying to kill Albus Dumbledore."

"I won't be reckless," he promised. "I'll take as much time as I can. And you're going to help me, because I require your mind."

She pulled back and shook her head. "I can't help you plan the assassination of Albus Dumbledore."

"Are you with me, or aren't you?" he growled, pushing his fingers into her hair. She seemed to steady herself then, and she mumbled at last,

"Of course I am. I'll help you. I'm with you all the way, Tom."

Fire blazed through Voldemort's veins at that, and he crushed her mouth onto his for a moment before he hissed impulsively,

"_Ysssathanosss amathasssa. _Say it again."

"Tom," she whispered, her breath warm on his lips. She kissed him delicately, slowly. "I'm with you, Tom."

Finally, the drumbeat in his head grew so loud that he couldn't ignore it any longer, and he finally touched his forehead to hers and said softly,

"I love you."

They just breathed, for a very long while, and when at last Hermione pulled back, her eyes heavy-lidded and her lips parted, she blinked a few times. Then her eyes widened slowly, and a look of shock crossed her face. She touched her fingers to her lips, and she whispered,

"Oh, my…"

"What?" Voldemort scowled. "What is it?"

"Tom," Hermione said with shaking breath, a broad smile crossing her face, "I think you ought to look in a mirror."

**Author's Note: Well, Bellatrix kind of had that coming, huh? But leave it to Hermione to be super diplomatic about it. And Dumbledore… well, he's got something coming, too. And Voldemort's officially in love - if you've ever read any of my Bellamort stories, you'll know that I believe Tom Riddle/Lord Voldemort is capable of feeling love, just not in the same way that most people experience love (i.e. he would perceive feelings and emotions in a warped way). **

**As always, thank you so much for reading and a massive, massive thanks for feedback.**


	20. Bravo

"Sylvie, are you very certain?" Hermione studied her reflection in the full-length mirror in the black and white suite. She dragged her palms over the raw silk gown she'd put on, and she noticed that hers and Sylvie's tailoring spells had made it fit just so. "Are you certain you don't mind me borrowing it?"

"I don't mind one bit," Sylvie Malfoy insisted. She stood beside Hermione in a deep magenta dress of her own, a satin creation with black buttons and black lace trim. She adjusted her ringlets and asked, "Do I look all right?"

"You're a paragon of French elegance," Hermione huffed. "Even with your clothes, I still look frumpy."

"Your hair and makeup could use a little work." Sylvie flashed Hermione a little smile, and she pulled her wrist. Hermione glanced down at the emerald green silk gown she'd borrowed, with its metallic gold trim and its pearl accents. Coupled with Hermione's ruby ring, she looked positively festive for the Christmas season. Good thing, then, that she and Sylvie were about to head downstairs to the ballroom for a party.

"Now," Sylvie said, pulling Hermione into the black and white tiled bathroom, "Let's fix your hair. May I?"

"Please." Hermione watched as Sylvie opened Hermione bottle of Sleekeazy's. Sylvie gently combed some of the stuff through Hermione's ratty mane, and then she began to pull it back and pushed in pins that she Conjured with her twisting, feminine-looking wand. She kept pulling and pushing at Hermione's hair, and Hermione had no idea what was happening to her head. Finally, Sylvie said,

"There."

Hermione turned her face and looked in the mirror, and she was very pleasantly surprised. Sylvie had drawn Hermione's hair back in a series of artistic swirls, and when Hermione touched at the back, she felt a ballerina bun. Her hair was neat and pretty, she thought. She grinned at Sylvie and said,

"Thank you, Madame Malfoy."

"Now your makeup." Sylvie opened Hermione's cosmetics bag and rifled through the objects inside. She seemed confused by the mostly Muggle products from the year 2004, but eventually she figured out how to work everything. She dabbed scarlet lipstick onto Hermione's lips, lined her eyes with black and shadowed them with a brush of dark green, applied quite a bit of mascara, and brushed powder over Hermione's skin. Finally, she blushed Hermione's cheekbones. Then she cast a charm upon Hermione's face so that the makeup would stay all night. Hermione admired her reflection in the mirror and said,

"You French witches really do have a way with beauty. When I met all those witches from Beauxbatons…"

She trailed off, her cheeks going hot. She'd said far too much. She looked at Sylvie, her eyes going wide. Sylvie gave her a curious look and asked,

"When did you meet witches from Beauxbatons?"

"Erm… on the Continent, with the Dark Lord," Hermione lied. "It was… I was… erm. Traveling with him."

"Oh, I see." Sylvie seemed very suspicious all of a sudden. She pinched her lips and tipped her chin up, and most of the camaraderie that had developed between Hermione and Sylvie seemed to have dissolved into thin air. Hermione gulped and suggested,

"You should get downstairs, don't you think? You're the hostess; people will be here soon."

"Yes. Quite so." Sylvie and Hermione left the suite, and they were almost to the staircase when a figure emerged from the arched opening. Tom Riddle had come up the stairs, and he was clad in a white-tie set of tuxedo robes. He held out his hand to Hermione and said,

"Sylvie, I'd like to walk her down myself, if you don't mind."

"Of course not, sir." Sylvie stared intently at Tom, and Hermione knew why. He was so intensely handsome now, ever since he'd told her that he loved her. His features were chiseled and angular. His eyes were dark and shining. His lips were perfectly formed, full and rosy against his unmarred skin. His hair seemed far less grey than it had before, and it appeared to have grown in substantially upon his hairline. He looked, rightly and truly, like a profoundly handsome man of very nearly forty-two. He did not seem broken or warped by the magic he'd performed. He did not seem like his Horcruxes had destroyed him. He seemed healed, reborn.

He stepped toward Hermione with a vivaciousness she'd never seen in him, energy filling his movements as a little smile crossed his face. She took his hand, and Sylvie Malfoy wisely moved down the stairs. Tom pressed his hand to the small of Hermione's back and growled into her ear,

"Let's go back into your suite before the party. I'm hungry."

"Tom," she whispered. "Sylvie's just done my hair. I couldn't have you mussing it."

He let out a low rumble of a laugh and kissed her cheek. "I'd be careful with your hair. I'd be quick. So very, very quick, Hermione. Give me two minutes."

"Very tempting," she hummed, "but you're all arranged in your tuxedo robes, and I'm all dolled up in a borrowed gown, and we -"

"Two minutes, Hermione." He kissed her cheek again. "I'll make it worth your while."

"Tom!" She finally pulled back and pressed her mouth against his. She whispered desperately onto his lips, "After the party. Hmm?"

"I am going to be aching for you by then," he whined. He snatched her hand in his and pulled her toward the stairs as he complained, "I'm not pleased about your decision to rebuff me now. I've been craving you all day."

She laughed a little and said again, "After the party. I promise."

"You'd best be prepared," he said as they descended the stairs. "I'm sleeping in your suite, and it's going to be a long night."

She tingled then, as they neared the bottom of the stairs. She pulled him back before he stepped out of the stairwell, and he whirled toward her. She drew herself flush against him and whispered,

"Do that again. Threaten me again."

"Oh, you like that, hmm?" He smirked and bent down, touching his forehead to hers. He let his lips brush against hers as he whispered, "When this party is over, I am going to make you come until you can't breathe."

"Tom." She tried to kiss him, but he pulled away just enough to prevent that. Their breath still mingled as he promised her,

"You're going to moan that name, cry it into the darkness until your voice is hoarse."

"Tom." Hermione pressed her hands to his chest and squeezed at his tuxedo robe. She was so alive for him then, so alive she couldn't think straight, and she mumbled, "All right. Let's go back upstairs."

"Oh, no. It's too late now." He kissed her cheekbone. "Now you have to wait, and dance with me, and then when it's all over at the party, I will take you upstairs and I will -"

"I get the picture." Hermione grinned. She sighed and let him step away, and then she finally found a breath. He linked his hand with hers, and he took a few steps before stopping. He cleared his throat and glanced down to the hand he was holding. He stared at her ring for a moment and asked,

"Would you mind wearing it on the other hand?"

"The… the ruby ring?" Hermione toyed with it for a moment. She blinked. It wasn't an engagement ring, was it? She took down her Occlumency shields and thrust forth her confusion. He hadn't proposed marriage. This wasn't an engagement ring; it was a ring of possession. He was just claiming her with this ring.

"I think that message would be more obvious if it were on your left hand." Tom brushed his thumb over his lip. "Right now it just looks like a trinket."

Hermione let out a shaking breath but nodded. She slid the ruby ring from her right fourth finger and moved it to her left hand, gliding it onto the finger that had once held her wedding rings from Ron. He was gone now, Hermione thought. She would probably never, ever see him again. But Tom was here, and she was _with_ him. She belonged to the Dark Lord, so much more completely than she'd ever intended to do. She put her Occlumency shields back up and stared at the ring on her left hand, and she heard Tom say quietly,

"Thank you."

He took her right hand again and led her to the ballroom.

* * *

For the first twenty minutes of the party, Hermione held Tom's hand as he used the other to slowly sip firewhisky with a sprig of rosemary and some cranberries. She drank mulled wine and listened as Tom chatted with an elderly member of the Rowle family who was very interested in hearing about Lord Voldemort's aspirations for a wizarding society that was hierarchical but inclusive. Hermione paid close attention as Tom explained that in his vision, blood purity would be a goal but not a puritanical endgame, whilst Beings and Beasts would be accommodated and treated according to their intelligence and contributions to the wizarding world. Meanwhile, he said patiently, the Muggle world would be kept at bay, as its technology and societal structure had no ability to integrate fully with magic. He was willing to work within the framework of a Ministry to achieve this goal, he told Mr Rowle, so long as he was given a Minister willing to work with him. Would Mr Rowle be able to contribute funds to the political movement, Tom asked delicately, so that meetings could be held, bribes could be made, appointments could be arranged, and spies could be organised? Mr Rowle gladly promised a monthly stipend of five hundred Galleons to Lord Voldemort, to be transferred regularly from his Gringotts vault to Tom Riddle's. Tom clinked his whisky tumbler against Mr Rowle's and thanked him for his generosity, and then he said,

"You know, Mr Rowle, it's witches like Hermione Granger who are proof that the society I seek to build is the best way forward. You see, Hermione was born into Muggle society, just as I was, gifted with magic. Unlike me, she had two Muggle parents. And unlike anyone else in this room, she went undetected by the Ministry and is self-educated. But she is an immensely powerful witch. It is most suitable that she share her gifts with the wizarding community that has accepted her, and that she never return to the Muggle world. It is also most suitable that she be paired with a Half-Blood. Don't you agree?"

Hermione felt her cheeks go warm. That felt awfully personal, she thought. But then she considered that Tom was a Legilimens, that he probably knew what Mr Rowle was thinking about all of this, about the Muggle-born witch holding Lord Voldemort's hand. She squeezed a little at Tom's fingers, and Mr Rowle nodded, seeming quite convinced.

"I think you are quite on the right track, sir," said Mr Rowle. "My nephew, Thorfinn, will want to hear so much more about all of this. Have you spoken with him?"

"I have. Thorfinn and I are old friends." Tom curled up his lips. "I shall say hello to him again tonight. Thank you again, Mr Rowle."

He bowed a little, and Hermione raised her glass a little. "So nice to meet you."

"And you, Miss Granger." Mr Rowle nodded. Hermione resisted the urge to correct him about her title. It was _Madam_ Granger, wasn't it? She was a married witch, wasn't she?

"May I have your attention, please?"

The string instruments, enchanted to play themselves in the corner by the towering, twinkling Christmas tree, quieted down, and the conversational din in the ballroom mellowed. The Amplified voice of Abraxas Malfoy called out,

"We shall now have the first dance to open the ballroom for proper festivities. I present to you Narcissa Black and Lucius Malfoy, Andromeda Black and Cypress Avery, and Bellatrix Black with Rodolphus Lestrange. Kindly also welcome our guest of honour, Lord Voldemort, with Miss Hermione Granger. Your host and hostess will also be dancing."

"Oh, help." Hermione let Tom lead her toward the dance floor, and she flicked him a nervous little smile. She stepped out onto the wooden parquet floor with him and felt his hand go to her back. His fingers wrapped around hers, and they waited for the music to start. Hermione looked about at the other couples. Sylvie Malfoy looked beautiful wrapped up in Abraxas' arms, and Abraxas' blue eyes were locked onto his wife. Lucius and Narcissa looked like nervous little children. Andromeda seemed like she wanted to be anywhere else other than dancing with the Avery boy. And Bellatrix looked sorrowful and utterly glum with her future husband's arms around her. She stared over Rodolphus' shoulder at Tom and Hermione, her sunken eyes heavy with something Hermione couldn't read.

"What is she thinking?" Hermione whispered. Tom shut his eyes and curled up half his mouth.

"_Lost cause,_" he parroted. "_He doesn't want me. I've never seen a man look at a witch the way he looks at her."_

"You're making things up," Hermione complained, but Tom shook his head.

"I am not."

The music started then, and Hermione was swept into a rather brisk waltz. She struggled to keep the beat, to keep her feet moving just so, but Tom led her expertly. She stared up at him and said,

"The last time you and I danced, we both had masks on."

"I seem to recall almost killing you that night," Tom said. "It was a bit of a shock, discovering that you'd come back in time to destroy me."

Hermione scowled. "That isn't why I came back in time."

Tom tipped his head and sighed. "I'm no fool, Hermione. I am a great many things. Blazes, I'm a murderer, but I'm not a fool."

Hermione's mouth fell open as they danced. She shook her head. "No. Odysseus sent me a letter telling me to come back and find you and make myself your friend. He told me to change the past to save people, reduce suffering, to -"

"But when you stood in that bathroom, rotating that Time-Turner, did you think to yourself, _I am going back in time to make certain that Lord Voldemort wins?_ Or did you just think that you were coming back to change things?" He narrowed his eyes at her. She swallowed hard, feeling dizzy.

"I didn't… I never meant…" Hermione wrenched her eyes shut and stumbled a little. He tightened his hands around her and whispered,

"It's all right; I didn't mean to fall in love with you, either. But here we are."

"How did you find out?" Hermione asked. Her eyes welled heavily. She shook her head and whispered, "You and I… we…"

"Two nights ago, when you were sleeping in my bed, I pulled out a memory of you talking about your mother's memory problems with Ron Weasley. Then you asked him if he would change history if he could. Suddenly you were coming back in time. Then you were in the Leaky Cauldron and you were plotting ways to ingratiate yourself to me. Part of your plan involved winning my trust. Telling me that it would have been better if I'd won."

Hermione gasped. She started to cry now, to really cry, not caring that people were watching. She couldn't care that people saw tears streaming down her cheeks as she struggled through a waltz with Lord Voldemort. He said softly,

"I started searching your more recent thoughts. Eventually, it wasn't a game anymore. Eventually, you weren't tricking me. You weren't pretending about resenting your old life. You weren't lying when you said you wanted me to be successful. Your real thoughts these days are love for me. You've turned to the Darkness, Hermione Granger, and it's my fault, isn't it?"

"I am in love with you, Tom." She was desperate now. She stared at her ring on her left fourth finger and she mumbled, "I can't imagine ever going back. I can't imagine fighting against you now."

"Don't you think I know that?"

The song ended, and Tom pulled back to bow to Hermione, who curtsied. He strode right up to her and seized her face in his hands, and he bent to put his lips beside her ear.

"I like threatening to kiss you. I don't want to threaten to hurt you. But don't you betray me, because nothing would break me into a thousand pieces the way that destroying you as an enemy would do. I love you, Hermione Granger. Dance with me again."

They danced in silence for another twenty minutes. Finally Tom said he wanted to go speak with Raddox Lestrange about his son's treatment of Bellatrix and about the man's friendship, and he needed to do so alone. Hermione didn't think it was a good idea to argue, so she made her way over to the food table. She was shaken and felt weak from the realisation of what Tom had seen in her mind. She put a few truffles and some cheese on a little plate and began to munch in a corner, staring down at her food.

"I wanted to thank you. And to… apologise."

Hermione looked up to see Bellatrix standing before her. The young witch had come to the party in an elegant gown of black satin, velvet, and silk. Her usually wild curls had been tamed into a low chignon, and she wore a black pearl pendant. She looked quite pretty, Hermione thought. She did seem to have quite recovered from her Cruciatus Curse. Hermione cleared her throat and swallowed her bite of cheese.

"You must watch your thoughts around him," Hermione said. "It's almost impossible to hide anything."

"Perhaps I shall learn Occlumency, like you," Bellatrix smirked. Hermione remembered the way that Draco Malfoy had learnt Occlumency from Bellatrix. Had it been Lord Voldemort to teach Bellatrix? She sighed and said,

"He's looking forward to you serving him once you've finished with school."

"Serving him. As a soldier." Bellatrix huffed a breath and fingered her skirts. "I had meant to pursue him, before you appeared out of nowhere."

"I didn't come from as _nowhere_ as everyone seems to think," Hermione said cryptically. "I've known him for a long time."

"Have you?" Bellatrix sucked a lip. "Right. Well. Here I am, informing you that I'm very sorry and it won't happen again."

"What, you wishing death on me? Thinking about killing me yourself?" Hermione raised her eyebrows. Bellatrix's cheeks coloured, and she whispered,

"I won't… I wouldn't…"

"You're afraid of him," Hermione nodded, "as well you should be. He wouldn't hesitate. Not for a moment. You'd see a flash of green and nothing else. Just finish school and then accept whatever assignment he gives you, Bellatrix."

"Mm-hmm." Bellatrix let out a little sigh and asked carefully, "Has he used… erm… that is… he looks different."

Hermione curled up half her mouth and gave the diplomatic answer upon which she and Tom had agreed. "His study of Dark magic wore immensely upon his body, but through his powers, he's regained his health and looks. It is marvelous, isn't it?"

"So it is." Bellatrix glanced over her shoulder to where Raddox Lestrange was talking with Tom. She looked back to Hermione and said, "I don't think you want to talk to me anymore."

"Erm…" Hermione thought back to the time Bellatrix had had her pinned on the floor of this very ballroom, dragging her wand across Hermione's flesh. _Mudblood._ She licked her lips and whispered, "Not really, no."

"All right, then. See you." Bellatrix whirled on a heel and marched off. She strode straight toward Rodolphus Lestrange, a tall and lanky boy with stringy brown hair. They talked for a moment, and then Rodolphus led Bellatrix to a table filled with wine glasses.

Hermione watched then as Abraxas Malfoy walked up to Tom and clapped him on the back, gesturing grandly to the piano along one of the ballroom walls. Tom held his hands up and shook his head, but Abraxas nodded and clasped his hands together. Hermione's stomach fluttered, and she saw Tom half-heartedly follow Abraxas across the ballroom. He went to the piano, and the strings went quiet. People began to crowd around the piano, but Hermione held back. She clutched her plate of truffles and cheese, and she watched as Tom opened the instrument and put his fingers to the keys.

He began to play a scherzo by a wizarding composer, a piece Bellatrix had learnt about at Hogwarts. This, _The Victorious Duelling Witch, _was a thundering, towering challenge. His right hand cascaded all over the high notes as his left hand pounded out chords. Then his right fingers began flitting around like a waterfall, tinkling around whilst his right hand played arpeggios beneath. More thudding chords, building and growing, a percussive and drumming accent at the end of the beautiful middle section.

Hermione stood staring at the crowd, at the way they admired Tom. They were whispering to one another. A few witches had fingers to their lips. They hadn't known he possessed this talent. They hadn't known that he was a musical genius on top of being a powerful wizard. And here he was, physically handsome, talking politics with the most elite Purebloods, gathering funds and allies, performing piano perfectly. Here was Lord Voldemort, swaying as his fingers moved in perfect harmony on the keys of the Malfoys' piano, trilling around and then scouring the lower keys with drilling chords. Hermione's eyes flicked to Bellatrix, who was leaning on Rodolphus for support and looked like she was going to faint. Even Sylvie Malfoy looked awed, clutching Abraxas' hand and gazing at Tom as he swept into the final act of the scherzo.

His hands were flying now, up and down and back again. He caressed the high notes, kissing them with his little finger whilst his left hand plunked out the deepest chords on the bottom register of the instrument. He began to rock forward and back rhythmically, his face contorting a little as he finished the piece. He yanked his hands triumphantly from the piano, and the crowd erupted into wild applause. People hooted and hollered, and witches gasped. Tom looked up from the piano and met Hermione's eyes. She let down her Occlumency shields and thought right at him,

_I did not know when I came back in time that I was going to fall in love with you. I did not realise that I was going to think your way was the right way. I did not know that Odysseus was right all along. I did not know… any of it. I know now. It's you. I belong to the Dark Lord. I'm yours, Tom._

He blinked a few times and shut the piano, and Hermione sealed up her mind again. He was swamped then; people rushed toward him and swarmed around him. Bellatrix was trying to get closer; she was shouting at him that he'd performed beautifully. Druella Black was touching at his robe and insisting that it was the most beautiful music she'd ever heard. Tom smiled and nodded at everyone, thanking them and trying to move through the crowd. He was making his way to Hermione, she realised. He was coming to her.

Finally he broke free, and people seemed to realise that he wanted to be left alone. They scattered slowly, still humming with conversation about Lord Voldemort's piano performance, and Abraxas dashed up and put a hand on Tom's shoulder.

"That will certainly have them talking all night, sir," Abraxas said enthusiastically.

"_My Lord,_" Hermione corrected Abraxas. The pale, blond man looked at her and frowned a little, but then his throat bobbed and he nodded.

"You're right, of course. It was a phenomenal performance, My Lord."

Tom's lips curled up. He nodded once to Abraxas and said, "Thank you for the use of the instrument. I'm going to retire on that high note. No pun intended. Hermione… come with me."

She shivered and nodded as he held his hand out. She put her fingers in his palm and let him lead her toward the door of the ballroom. Once they were out in the corridor, he paused and took her face in his hands.

"I saw your true thoughts," he confirmed. "All of them."

Her eyes watered again. "I love you."

"I _know_ that." He nodded. "I know it because after I saw you scheming to trick me, I panicked and searched for any indication that you were not my enemy. I had my wand aimed at you, Hermione; I needed to know whether I had to execute you in your sleep."

She shrank back from him, feeling fear all of a sudden. But he pulled her close and descended, brushing his lips against hers.

"Your thoughts showed me that you were deeply unhappy in the life you left behind, that you felt disgust toward Dumbledore after the war, that you had so many thoughts about what I could have accomplished if I'd chosen differently. Your thoughts showed me that you have fallen thoroughly in love with me here, though it was never your intention to do so. _Love_. I felt it so strongly from your mind, from your soul, when I went looking for myself in your head, Hermione, and I…"

He reached down for her left hand and brushed his thumb over her fourth finger. He whispered carefully,

"Don't take this off. Do not betray me."

"I promise you that I am yours, Tom," Hermione said, reaching up for the face that had become so perfect. She remembered the awful thought she'd had about him once. _Almost handsome. _He was very handsome now, she thought, not that that mattered to her one lick. It was his power and his talent and his intelligence that drove her into a frenzy.

"I'm going to take you upstairs now," Tom murmured against Hermione's cheekbone. He kissed her there, then put his lips beside her ear, "and they'll hear you at this party."

She giggled a little and insisted, "No. I'll be quiet as a mouse."

He seized her left hand and dragged her towards the staircase as he growled, "I'll take that as a challenge."

**Author's Note: Choo choo! All aboard the Lemon Express! Who's looking forward to that? Mwah hahaha. So, Tom got to show off his piano skills in public and wow everybody. Abraxas is finally using **_**My Lord. **_**Sylvie and Hermione bonded… kinda. Bellatrix and Hermione… well, it's complicated. And we discovered that Voldemort knows the truth about Hermione's thoughts, maybe even more deeply than she does. But they're still in love. So what does **_**that**_ **mean?**

**Would love your thoughts on this chapter, as always. **


	21. You Know I Love You

"So," Voldemort said, letting his tuxedo robe fall to the ground and swiftly undoing the knot of his bow tie, "Let's go get warmed up."

Hermione was shuffling out of Sylvie Malfoy's emerald green gown, revealing her black silk bra and matching knickers. She stepped out of the gown and smirked at Voldemort.

"Warmed up?" she repeated. "Whatever do you mean?"

"It's chilly in here," he complained. "I'd like to get warmed up. I think a shower is in order."

He unfastened the little black pearl buttons running down the front of his white dress shirt and then yanked it out of trousers. He unhooked his trousers and shoved them down, kicking off his dress shoes and wrenching down his underwear and peeling off his socks. Hermione stood ogling his naked form, standing there in her bra and knickers, and she whispered,

"A shower sounds nice."

"Your moans will echo off the tiles." He narrowed his eyes at her, and she giggled a little. But he glared, and her face went serious. She murmured quietly,

"What are you going to do to me, Tom?"

"You won't stay quiet," he promised. "Off with the bra and knickers, then."

He walked past her, into the bathroom and to the large standing shower. It was unusual to have such a large shower in even the most modern wizarding bathrooms, but Malfoy Manor was the pinnacle of luxury. He opened the door and stepped into the slick black and white tiled stall, turning on the taps until the water ran hot and steamed. Hermione moved into the shower a moment later, and he curled up his lips at her as he instructed her,

"Take the pins out of your hair and let it down."

She visibly shivered, as though he'd Confounded her, though he knew she was just aroused. She nodded and stood partially under the stream of water, reaching for the swirls and twists of hair that Sylvie had done up. She began to pull at the hairpins, yanking them out one by one and placing them on the little inlaid shelf in the tiled wall. _Plink, plink, plink. _The pins landed with soft little sounds that made Voldemort shudder. Eventually, her bun came loose, and Hermione shook her hair out. He laced his fingers through the twisted waves and drew her near, bending down and crushing her mouth with a kiss.

He was gentle at first, letting his cock fold up against her belly as his fingers caressed her scalp. He pressed his lips to hers and then finally lathed his tongue around her bottom lip to ask her to open for him. She did, and then he dragged his tongue over the roof of her mouth and pulled at her tongue with his. She let out a soft little noise, and he nibbled her lip. She grunted a bit, so he sucked at the lip and then pushed in his tongue again. Her hands coursed up and down his slick arms, and he finally broke away.

He reached for her bottle of conditioning shampoo and uncorked it, and he drizzled some of the lavender goop into his palm as Hermione wet her hair beneath the stream of water. She pulled back from the stream, and he rubbed his hands together before putting them to Hermione's hair. He began to massage the shampoo into her locks, working from the ends up towards her scalp. He worked his fingertips in circles on her scalp, and suddenly her mouth fell open. She tipped her head back a little, and he smiled a bit to himself. She liked this. She liked when he touched her like this, when he rubbed at her head like this and made her body feel good.

Eventually she rinsed the conditioning shampoo out of her hair, letting the water cascade over her body along with suds. Voldemort let her step away, and he took her place beneath the stream. He uncorked the bottle of shampoo and quickly sudsed up his own hair, then rinsed out the wash. He reached for the bar of sage-scented soap, and he rubbed it over his body to get suds and bubbles all over himself. Hermione began to stroke at him, her hands running all over his arms and chest. She brushed her fingertips along his biceps, and she whispered,

"All better."

He sighed and looked down at his own body. She was right. All of his visible scars were gone. All the rivulets of white tissue had completely faded. His muscles seemed sharper, more chiseled. His hair was less grey. His face was smooth and pink. His eyes were both wide open and glinting. His lips were unmarred and full. His wrinkles and fine lines had greatly abated. He looked ten years younger than he'd looked before, if not more. He looked healthy, where he'd looked profoundly unwell before.

"You have healed me," he informed Hermione. She shook her head and took the soap.

"I can't take credit."

"Hmm." He let her suds up her body, and then he started to massage her. He pulled her close and rubbed the soap into her back, soothing her skin with rubs of his palm and fingers along her shoulder blades and down her spine. Hermione sighed onto his chest, her breath hot. He moved them under the water, and she burrowed her face against his pectoral muscle. His cock throbbed against her belly, and he deepened the massage on her back. Hermione's voice growled against his chest, and her hands clutched at his shoulders.

He turned her around and folded his cock up against her lower back, and he snared his hands around the front of her body. His left hand cupped her breast, and his thumb dragged over her peaked nipple. She turned her head a bit, and Voldemort kissed her intensely. Their tongues tangled for a long moment, and his right hand trailed down between her legs. His forefinger and middle finger pressed at her clit, and he squeezed her breast with his other hand. Hermione moaned, and he released her mouth, letting her groan into the open space of the shower. Her voice echoed off the tiles, just like he said it would do.

He rubbed her clit with circular, wet motions, very gradually speeding up and then slowing down again when her breath became too urgent and shallow. All the while, he compressed and massaged her breasts, then ran his palm down her slick, flat stomach. He pulled her back against his aching cock, and he whispered,

"You know I love you."

"Tom," Hermione whimpered, and she arched her back a bit. He slid two fingers into her body, feeling that she was absolutely drenched, and his thumb toyed with her clit some more. He pressed and dragged at her folds and nub, and he hooked his fingers inside of her. He glided his palm back up her stomach and rubbed her breast again and pinched nipple hard, and Hermione squirmed. She whirled around and seized his face in her hands, yanking him down.

"Tom!"

"Hermione," he groaned, pushing her toward the wall of the shower. She was going to slip and fall, he thought. He waved his fingers behind him and shut off the taps with wandless, nonverbal magic, and he cast simple Hot Air Charms upon them. He pushed her hard onto the wall, and she keened madly. He shoved his hand between her legs again, dragging his fingers along her folds and clit, and she whispered frantically,

"I'm going to come."

"Let them hear you," he snarled. Hermione slammed her palms hard against the shower tiles, her damp hair sticking to the wall as she ground her head back onto the tile. He rubbed and massaged her entrance and hissed at her, "Come for me, Hermione."

"Yes! Tom! _Agh!_" She shrieked then, stamping her foot as her walls clenched and clamped around his fingers. Her face flushed very dark red, and then the flush webbed down onto her chest. She panted and groaned, quite loudly. Voldemort couldn't take it anymore. He lifted one of Hermione's legs up and eased her back against the wall, and he bent down to arrange himself. He realised something then. He had the strength to do this properly. He could lift her.

She moved with him then to make it all work. She stood a bit away from the tile wall and leaned back against it. He hoisted her up by her hips, and she straddled him. He bent his knees slightly, and she slid her back toward the tile as she sank onto him. She was wet, hot, and snug. It felt good, so very good, and Voldemort grunted. She moaned again, tossing her head back as she wrapped her arms tightly around Voldemort's shoulders. She pressed her back against the wall as he lined everything up and began to thrust.

_In and out. In and out. In and out. _He began to move like a machine, thrusting and driving into her as he gripped her as tightly as he could. He held fast to keep from dropping her, to ensure she stayed secure. He buried his face into the crook of her neck, his breath huffing against her skin as he whispered frantically,

"You know I love you."

"Tom," she moaned helplessly. Her voice ricocheted off the tiles. He lost himself before he knew what was happening. He was spilling himself, draining his force into her as he realised just how much pleasure it gave him to mesh his body with hers. The detonation was all-consuming and powerful. He stayed linked with her for a long moment as his cock started to soften, as come leaked between them.

They rinsed off in silence, and then Voldemort left the shower and warmed a towel for Hermione. She gratefully stepped into it, and he led her to the bed, deciding they'd eschew pyjamas tonight. He peeled off her towel at the bedside and shucked his own, drawing her naked beneath the blankets. He pulled her until she was facing him, and he thought of the way her mind had shown him trickery and deception, followed by her genuinely falling in love and going far Darker than she'd ever meant to do.

"Hermione." He reached for her left hand and dragged his thumb over her left hand. "You said that you belong to the Dark Lord. Is it true?"

"It is true," Hermione said. Her face was a little sad as her own eyes settled on the ruby ring. She blinked slowly and whispered, "My husband is gone, and Albus Dumbledore is the enemy. I never thought that I would be in love with Lord Voldemort. But all of that is true."

He felt her Occlumency shields slip down then, and inside her mind, he perceived utter openness. She was letting him search for anything he wanted. He flicked through a few choice memories.

_Ron Weasley was nearly passed out drunk, having attended a Chudley Cannons match and vomited on the sitting room carpet upon coming home. He'd Splinched a bit Apparating to the flat, and Hermione had fixed him up, remembering another time she'd fixed his Splinching. This time had felt different; he'd Splinched because he'd been so drunk. She was now sitting on a divan with her arms crossed, staring at Ron where he lay moaning about his spinning head. She wondered just what he'd let himself become. Hadn't he been a war hero?_

Voldemort shoved that memory aside, huffing a breath and thinking to himself that he was sick and tired of seeing Hermione's thoughts of Ron Weasley. If he never, ever saw another memory of Ron Weasley again, he'd be happy.

'_Mum. Did you forget that you were baking scones?' Hermione was rushing into her parents' parlour. The smell of burning food filled the air. Hermione's mother looked up absentmindedly from the newspaper. She shrugged._

'_I don't think I was baking anything. What's that odour?'_

_Hermione's mouth fell open as she realised just how badly she'd mucked up her mother's memory._

Voldemort pinched his lips and pushed that thought away, too. He didn't want to see Hermione's pain. She didn't want to relive it, either, he knew.

_Hermione was sitting in her room in the Leaky Cauldron, preparing for the Masquerade Ball. She was contemplating the best way to fool Lord Voldemort. If she told him that he was her master, that she was his servant, perhaps he might trust her. Perhaps he might believe that she'd come back to help him._

Voldemort let out a long sigh, and Hermione visibly winced where she lay. Voldemort reached for her hand again and squeezed, and then he pulled out a more recent memory.

_Voldemort was playing piano, and Hermione was staring at his face, thinking that he was the most magnificent wizard who had ever lived. She'd been a fool to ever doubt him. She'd been a fool to fight him. She wanted nothing more in all the world now than to see him be victorious, and she would do whatever she needed to do to make that happen. If enemies had to die to make way for Lord Voldemort's ascent, then people would have to move. Un-Births would have to happen. This past would be changed, yes, and it would be changed so that Voldemort would win. He had to win. He was the most powerful wizard in the entire world, and Hermione was madly in love with him._

"Yes, your descent into Darkness is all my fault," Voldemort nodded. He pulled her face closer and kissed her lips carefully. "I am not sorry."

He caressed her left hand and brushed his fingers over her ring. She shut her eyes and asked against his cheek,

"What does it mean?"

"What does what mean?" he murmured back. Hermione specified,

"What does it mean that I care so very much for you and so very little for what I left behind? Does it mean that I am wicked?"

"It means that you, like time, have changed," Voldemort offered. "For the better, I think."

She kissed him for a long moment, and then she asked softly, "What does the ring mean, Tom?"

"It means that you're mine," he told her. "It means that I love you."

She pulled back a little and nodded. "I will do it. He won't be expecting it."

Voldemort pulled a little face and shook his head in confusion. "Do what?"

Hermione licked her lips and let out a shaking breath. "Albus Dumbledore will see any meeting with you as a potential conflict. He will see any object you send him -"

"You are not a murderer," Voldemort said firmly, "and I won't have that stain on your soul. It… _ruins you_… it chips away at you. I won't have that happen. Not to you. I'll have Bella do it at Hogwarts; she'll be more than willing."

Hermione bristled visibly. "You don't need Bellatrix Lestrange to be your errand girl."

"Bellatrix Black," Voldemort corrected her. He pushed himself up onto an elbow. "What, you're going to throw a Killing Curse at Albus Dumbledore?"

"N-No." Hermione shut her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. She rolled onto her back and whispered, "There's got to be another way. It's just… you could get hurt, and I -"

"_You _could get _killed_," Voldemort snarled. "And, anyway, you are not a murderer."

Hermione chomped a lip and chewed for a long moment. "You're right. Probably best to have Bellatrix try it at Hogwarts. That's what you did with Draco; you had Draco do it from inside the school. But you should give her explicit instruction. In my lived experience, you left Draco to his own devices, and it was disastrous."

Voldemort cleared his throat and curled up his lips, pulling a little at the blanket. "Do you think Bellatrix Black would do absolutely anything for me if I promised her the right things?"

Hermione stared up at him and frowned. "Yes. Why?"

"What if I told her that she'd go to Azkaban for following my orders, but that I would eventually break her out of prison and give her… what she wanted?"

Hermione slowly sat up. Her thick brows furrowed. "She wants _you_, Tom."

"Precisely." He kept his voice tight as he said, "Bellatrix murders Albus Dumbledore with a Killing Curse immediately upon returning to school from the holidays. She is taken to Azkaban Prison. Someday I break her out, and when I do, she is given all the attention and adoration of the Dark Lord himself. That is what she'll be promised."

"Tom." Hermione shook her head. She looked ill. "Even for a girl like Bellatrix, that's just… that's ruthless."

"You'd rather kill him yourself?" Voldemort snapped. "Or I'll do it. I'm fine with most of these options."

Hermione wrenched her eyes shut and flopped down on the pillow. She cast a forearm over her eyes and whispered,

"Why does he have to be such a bloody meddling fool?"

"This would get both Dumbledore and Bellatrix out of the way," Voldemort noted, and Hermione breathed a long sigh as she seemed to consider that. Voldemort said quietly, "She wounded you deeply."

"So did you," Hermione said sharply. She pulled her arm away and glared up at him, and she flattened her lips into a line. "Fine. Tell Bellatrix to kill Dumbledore when she goes back for the school term. But you'll have to alter her memories first, because once they catch her, they'll give her Veritaserum and they'll interrogate her. You'll have to make her think it was her own wild idea. Some personal vendetta; she's just a mad witch. And then they'll throw her in prison and, what? You'll break your promise to her, right? You won't give her what she wants."

Voldemort shook his head. "She will serve me by killing Dumbledore and by going to Azkaban. That will be Bellatrix's service in this time. And you will serve me with your mind, and my loving me. Do you understand, Hermione?"

He reached for her left hand and brought her ruby ring to his lips, kissing the stone. He bent and planted a swift kiss on her forehead and whispered,

"You know I love you."

"Tom," she hummed, dragging her fingers up his chest, over his shoulders, and down his arms. "You said it was going to be a long night."

"Mmm." He kissed her on the mouth and then buzzed against her lips, "So it is."

**Author's Note: Lemons and fluff and murder plots, oh my! So will Bellatrix actually kill Dumbledore? If she does, will she implicate Voldemort in any way? What will the rest of the wizarding world have to say about all of this? **

**As always, your readership and feedback are greatly appreciated. I have a very busy weekend coming up but will update whenever I can. Thanks for your patience.**


	22. Happy Christmas

Hermione stared at Tom as he slept. She blinked in the darkness and studied his chiseled face, his narrow nose and his full lips. She dragged her fingertips over his bare chest and whispered carefully,

"Tom."

He stirred a little in his sleep but didn't rouse. He grunted and rolled onto his back, and Hermione adjusted herself until she was up on one elbow. She cupped his jaw in her hand and said more firmly,

"Tom."

His eyes sprang open, and he stretched his eyelids and yawned. He shook his head a little as if to help wake himself, and he mumbled,

"What's the matter?"

"Tom. I don't want you promising yourself to Bellatrix." Hermione said the words with more confidence than she ever would have imagined possessing. She would never, in her old life, have imagined lying naked in bed with Lord Voldemort, bossing him about. But here she was, hovering over him, giving him instruction. She shook her head and said almost sternly, "I don't want you promising Bellatrix that you'll be with her. Even if it's a lie. If you want to use her to kill Dumbledore, you'll have to find another way. I don't like the idea of you sending her off to Azkaban with a hope and a dream that someday she's going to kiss and touch you."

His eyes flashed a little, and he said softly, "You're… selfish. When it comes to me."

"Isn't that what you wanted?" Hermione snapped. "You told me you wanted me to be selfish with you."

"Mmm." He sighed and reached up to drag his knuckles down Hermione's arm. He told her, "I could alter her memories and implant new notions so that she thinks she's had the idea to kill Dumbledore as a method of impressing me. She'll go back to school with the crazed idea that if she kills Albus Dumbledore, perhaps she'll win my affections. She'll get caught, and she'll be interrogated, and they'll find that Bellatrix Black is a lunatic murderer desperate for the affections of Tom Riddle. They'll bring me in for questioning; I'll insist I knew nothing. Bellatrix will go to prison."

Hermione felt her heart start to race in her chest. She remembered, very vividly, the way Bellatrix had carved the word _Mudblood_ into her skin. She thought of how Bellatrix had tortured the Longbottoms, how she'd murdered Dobby. She loathed Bellatrix, she thought. And even in her lived existence, Bellatrix had spent a decade and a half in Azkaban. Would it be the very worst thing if Bellatrix went to prison in this time?

"What will her family think?" Hermione worried. "Their daughter will go to prison for trying to impress you. Won't that embitter Cygnus and Druella?"

"I'll reward them," Tom said quite thoughtfully. "Once Bellatrix is found guilty, I'll buy Cygnus and Druella a fine gift. I'll encourage Cygnus and Abraxas to draw up betrothment documents between Narcissa and Lucius, and I'll host and fund a grand engagement party for the pair of them. The Black family will be deeply in favour. And they will be reassured that Bellatrix's actions cast her as a heroine in my mind."

"This… could work," Hermione said sceptically. "It could all go horrifically wrong, or it could work. I'm not sure which."

"I'm not going to let you try and kill Albus Dumbledore," Tom snapped. "You haven't got it in you."

Hermione's cheeks went hot. Her lips fell open, and she insisted, "I am a very powerful witch."

"You are immensely powerful," Voldemort confirmed, "but you are _not_ a murderer. And for all the doubt you possess about Albus Dumbledore, you fought alongside him in your past life. You and he were staunch allies. Do I think you could aim your wand at him and cast a Killing Curse? No. Do I think you could feed him a deadly poison? No. I don't think you could, Hermione, and I would never ask that of your soul."

Hermione huffed a breath. She knew he was right. As much as she wanted him to be wrong, she knew he was right. She harboured all sorts of negative thoughts these days about Dumbledore, and she'd decided that his death was necessary. But she had no confidence in herself as his killer.

"I would duel him myself," Tom said, hesitating for just a moment, "but I… well."

"You're not entirely sure you'd win." Hermione raised her eyebrows. Tom sat up slowly and stared at her.

"It's not that simple. He's a very powerful man, much as I despise him."

"Believe me. I know that much. What makes you think Bellatrix, of all people, will be able to take him out?" Hermione asked. Tom raised his eyebrows and said,

"Because he won't see it coming. I'm a Legilimens just like him. He isn't scanning every student's mind every minute of every day. When I adjust Bellatrix's mind, I will make her think of her family when the students go back into the Great Hall after the holidays. Then she'll suddenly whip out her wand, aim it at Dumbledore, and cast a Killing Curse. There will be nothing he'll be able to do. She'll be subdued and quickly detained."

"Right." Hermione petted at Tom's bare chest and whispered, "When will you meet with her to play with her mind?"

"Just before she leaves for school." Tom covered her hand with his. "New Year's Day. I'll invite her over to greet her for the holiday as an excuse."

"New Year's Day," Hermione nodded. She let out a shaking breath and noted, "I'm running out of time for Christmas shopping."

"You'll have to go without giving anyone any Christmas gifts this year." Tom smirked. "You can't go to Diagon Alley until Dumbledore's out of the way, I'm afraid. Don't worry about my birthday, either."

He winked a little, and Hermione scowled. Then she remembered - Tom Marvolo Riddle had been born on the thirty-first of December, 1926. His forty-second birthday was coming up. She needed a gift for him. But Bellatrix wouldn't be going back to school until January. Hermione needed gifts. She'd have to come up with ideas on her own, she thought.

At least, she thought, they had a new plan regarding Bellatrix and Dumbledore. She could deal with Christmas. She was, after all, a powerful witch.

* * *

"_Dormez-vous dans la nuit enneigée. Li, Lo, Lu, Lée. Célébrez-vous la fête sacrée. Li, Lo, Lu, Lée._"

Hermione peered into the violet parlour and marveled. Sylvie Malfoy was standing beside the piano, where Tom sat playing a simple but beautiful tune. Sylvie was singing a French wizarding Christmas carol. Lucius Malfoy was seated on a divan with Abraxas, both of them watching Sylvie sing and Tom play. Hermione came walking slowly into the parlour and watched as Sylvie continued singing in a breathy little trill.

"_Allumez les bougies et le feu. Li, Lo, Lée, Lu. Velours rouge et glaçons bleus. Li, Lo, Lée, Lu._"

The little marching Christmas carol ended, and Hermione clapped along with Lucius and Abraxas. Tom picked up his cup of tea from the table beside the piano and sipped, and he flashed Hermione a warm little smile.

"Happy Christmas."

"Happy Christmas, My Lord," Hermione said. She'd awoken without him this morning; he must have come down early. They slept together nearly every night now. But on Christmas morning, she'd awakened to find a little card on the bedside table beside her that read simply,

_Happy Christmas, 1968, to the witch who will not be born for another eleven years. How strange and beautiful it all is. _

Hermione had put on a dark green velvet skirt and a black blouse, and she'd pulled her hair into a tight bun on the back of her head. She'd trotted down the steps and had heard piano and singing. Now Sylvie poured a cup of tea from the cart in the corner and offered it to Hermione.

"Abraxas and Lucius and I were just going to go open our own gifts," she said. "Can I have Dobby send in breakfast for you?"

"Rosemary scones," Tom said softly. Hermione curled up her lips and gratefully took the cup of tea. She nodded and said,

"Rosemary scones would be wondrous. Thank you."

After that, Abraxas, Lucius, and Sylvie left the violet parlour, and a few moments later, a tray of rosemary scones appeared on the tea cart. Hermione and Tom spent a few moments buttering up scones and then brought them to the small table in the centre of the room. Hermione stared at Tom opposite her and took a small bite of scone, sipping tea and whispering,

"I love you."

"As I love you," Tom said, his lips quirking up. He seemed quite nervous all of a sudden, and then he mumbled, "I've got two gifts for you, if you'll allow me."

"Oh. I've got one for you." Hermione felt embarrassed all of a sudden. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small wrapped box. She handed it over to Tom and said, "This took me a few days of hard work, but I think they function properly now. Happy Christmas, Tom."

He seemed a little confused, but then he unwrapped the box and cracked open the lid. He pulled out the two small stones inside, which appeared to be flat rocks from a beach. He seemed awfully confused until Hermione took one of them, pressed her thumb to it, and shut her eyes.

_Testing. Testing, one, two, three._

_So she's let down her Occlumency shields and is holding a rock. What exactly is the purpose of this -_

_I can read your exact thoughts when you're holding that stone and I'm holding mine, Tom, _Hermione thought at him. _We both have to be holding them for it to work, but it's like synthetic, two-way Legilimency._

Suddenly Tom dropped the stone onto the table, looking shocked. Hermione grinned, but he looked alarmed.

"How did you perform this sort of magic?" he demanded. She scowled.

"I thought you'd like them," she said. "They're a… a weapon. They would allow us to have secret conversations, to communicate privately even in public, you know, and -"

"How did you do this?" Tom snarled again. Hermione blinked. She gulped and said,

"I created an Occlumency Charm and a Legilimency Charm and imbued each into the stones. Then used Modified Protean Charms to link them. It took a lot of trial and error, and the stones are Conjured, but I -"

"You are the most brilliant witch I have ever met in my entire life," Tom said softly. He picked up his stone, and Hermione pressed her thumb to hers.

_I didn't think you were going to hate them, _she thought. _I'm sorry you hate your gift._

_I absolutely do not hate the stones. I am terrified of how powerful you are,_ he thought back, his eyes glinting. _This is exceptionally difficult magic. I don't think I could have created anything like this._

_I'm sure you could have._ Hermione rolled her eyes. _You're Lord Voldemort; you can do anything._

_Except live forever. _His face shifted a little, and in his mind she saw a flash of her own memory, of his white corpse crumpled in front of Hogwarts.

_Things are different here,_ Hermione insisted. _This is a different existence, Tom, and you can make different choices. I came to change the past. Your Christmas gift is this weapon that I've created for you. Do you like it?_

_Yes,_ he thought. _I quite like it. Would you like your first gift now?_

_Yes, please._ Hermione smiled a bit and tucked her stone into her pocket. She could tell then that Tom was thinking something at her, but she shook her head and said,

"We both have to be holding them at the same time. They're linked talismans of sorts. I haven't made myself into a Legilimens, I'm afraid."

"Well, perhaps I'm glad for that." Tom narrowed his eyes and tucked his own stone away. He pushed his chair back and walked over to the piano. "Your first gift is also a creation. Something I made for you."

"What is it?" Hermione felt a warm flush come over her as he sat at the piano and murmured,

"It's a dream I had about you."

Her eyes burned then as he put his fingers to the keys and began to play. She realised instantly that he'd written this piece, a dreamy little wisp of chords and climbing arpeggios. His hands moved softly and delicately, so much more carefully than they did in most pieces where he banged on the percussive bass chords and tinkered maniacally with the high notes.

This time, his fingers painted a rainy day. She could see his dream. They were standing together, rain trickling upon their hair as they kissed. He had her face in his hands, and their lips were trembling together. His hands moved sweetly, with exquisite and mild caresses of the keys. Alternately rocking and then sitting tall, Tom seemed absorbed in his creation, until at last his eyes flicked up to Hermione and he played the final three chords of the piece. By then, she had tears streaming down her cheeks, and she found herself whispering,

"You wrote that for me?"

"It wrote itself," he insisted, "in a dream. You invade my every thought, waking and sleeping, and I find I no longer much mind. You are like ink bleeding into my consciousness, Hermione, and I am drowning in you, but I breathe you in and find that I am stronger than ever. I am born anew since you came here."

He rose then and took the three steps to Hermione, threading his arms around her shoulders and lowering his lips to her ear. He whispered to her,

"Your other gift."

He reached into his robes and pulled out something glittering and golden. Hermione gasped as soon as she realised what it was. It was a necklace - a golden chain with a pendant that perfectly matched the ring he'd given her. The pendant was a round ruby with diamonds encircling it, just like the setting on her ring. Tom unclasped the necklace and carefully put it around Hermione's neck. She stared up at him and shook her head.

"I can't keep taking expensive things from you."

"Someday I will buy you everything you could ever want. Someday they'll give it all to me for free, and you'll be beside me, taking it. Because, Hermione, you are… erm…" He bit his lip hard and shut his eyes, shaking his head. "You've come here and you're very intelligent and you're very, very powerful. And you're helping me do things so that I'll be successful. You're helping me win. And you've made me fall in love with you, and I… I have no desire for any of this to stop. Ever."

She panted a little then, pressing her hands to his chest and nodding. He still had his eyes shut, but she studied his face and whispered,

"You know I love you."

He'd said it to her, a great many times, and now it was her turn to say it back. He opened his eyes and asked her pointedly,

"Will you be a real Death Eater for me?"

Hermione froze. Her fingers contracted on the front of Tom's robes. She felt queasy for a moment. In the world she'd left behind, the Death Eaters had been the enemy. She'd fought against them at the Department of Mysteries. They'd raided Bill and Fleur's wedding; they'd terrorised the Quidditch World Cup. It had been a tragedy when Draco had become a Death Eater. They had been the opposing force at the Battle of Hogwarts. And after the war, Hermione had watched as, one by one, they'd been shipped off to Azkaban. The Death Eaters were everything Hermione was not.

But Hermione Granger was here, in 1968, and she'd been sent here by Odysseus Siegel to change the course of history. She'd been sent to alter events. Ron Weasley was gone, perhaps forever. Harry Potter had almost definitely been made Un-Born. And Lord Voldemort's new plan involved finding places in the wizarding world for all, including Beasts, Beings, Muggle-borns, Half-Bloods, and Purebloods. He just wanted to set the wizarding world apart from the Muggle world, and he wanted personal power. She'd made him a weapon as a gift for Christmas. She was in love with him. She was helping him conspire to kill Albus Dumbledore with a plot to use and frame Bellatrix Black.

She was already gone, Hermione thought. The Hermione Granger who had been so haughty against Voldemort in her old life? That Hermione was gone. She'd been replaced by the witch who had traveled through time and had sunken into Darkness. This Hermione, the one wearing jewellery gifted to her by the Dark Lord himself, had fully embraced her murky morality and had become, essentially, her own enemy.

"Yes," she said, raising her eyes to Tom. "I will be your Death Eater."

He took her face in his hands and lowered his lips to hers, kissing her gently. "Happy Christmas."

She rubbed at his arms and pulled herself nearer to him. "Happy Christmas, My Lord."

**Author's Note: Okay. We've gone full on Dark Hermione now. Like she pointed out, she's trying to find the best way to kill Dumbledore (while being possessive of Voldemort - ha!)she's trying to help him be successful, she made him a super useful secret tool as a Christmas gift, and she's completely in love with her old greatest enemy. Oh, and she's now decided to become a Death Eater. No problem, right?**

**Thank you so much for putting up with my three-day delay. I was away for the weekend and literally didn't have my computer. It was torture. Gah. I'll be back to daily updates now.**


	23. Dead

"Bellatrix."

Lord Voldemort pushed back his chair and rose, striding around his desk as Bellatrix came walking into his office. He held out a glass of Champagne, already prepared for her, and smiled a little.

"Happy New Year," he said. Bellatrix seemed surprised as she took the flute and let Voldemort clink it against hers.

"Happy New Year, My Lord," she said softly. She sipped at her Champagne, and he said warmly to her,

"You and Hermione seem on better footing than you were before the unfortunate incident with the Cruciatus Curse. I feel confident sending you back to school, knowing that you and I will be good friends. We will, won't we? We'll be very good friends, you and I."

"So we will, My Lord," Bellatrix affirmed.

"Where did you tell your parents you were going tonight?" he asked her, for he'd said in a letter he'd instructed her to destroy that this meeting was secret. She opened her mouth and grinned a little.

"I told them I needed a few new supplies for the spring term at school. That I was off to Diagon Alley. Wanted to Apparate all on my own."

"Wonderful. Oh, I have a book I wanted to send back to school with you. Hold on a moment." Voldemort set down his glass of Champagne and moved behind Bellatrix's chair toward the bookshelves lining the walls of his office. He dragged his fingers over the spines and mused, "It's just something I thought you might want to… _Obliviate._"

He'd moved fluidly then, reaching with his right wand into his robes, twirling around to face Bellatrix, aiming his wand at her, and twisting the wand. She went wide-eyed, but then her eyes went very blank, and he felt her mind crack completely open. He felt magic surge between them, and he pawed through her memories. He felt for the sensation of her receiving a letter from Voldemort to come meet here today. He erased that memory entirely and replaced it with a genuine thought that she'd wanted to go to Diagon Alley to get some new makeup for school from Madam Primpernelle's.

Bellatrix slumped a little in her chair. Voldemort took a few steps towards her, his wand still aimed at her face, and he breathed slowly. He injected fresh thoughts into her mind, thinking them very, very clearly.

_I ought to kill Albus Dumbledore. If I kill him, Lord Voldemort will be so impressed with me. He won't want that Granger girl anymore if I do this deed. Not even Grindelwald could defeat Albus Dumbledore. They'll all think I'm mad, and I'll probably go to prison, but it won't matter. None of it matters; all that matters is what he thinks of me. Someday, maybe he'll think enough of me to come and fetch me away and be friendly with me. I want to make him happy. _

_I'll kill Dumbledore on the first day back to school. I'll murder him right there in front of everybody. I'll get arrested, but Lord Voldemort will think I've been a very brave soldier. Yes. I am going to kill Albus Dumbledore._

Voldemort slowly lowered his wand and tucked it away. He turned back toward the bookshelf and took out a tome on Vampires. He walked back toward Bellatrix, who was shaking her head as if ridding herself of an obnoxious insect inside her skull. She slowly took the book from Voldemort and mumbled,

"Thank you, My Lord."

"It's about Vampires," he said plainly. "I thought you'd find it interesting."

"Quite so." Bellatrix sounded numb. Then she licked her lips and asked Voldemort carefully, "Is there anything you'd like me to do for you when I go back to school, sir? Anything I could do to make you happy?"

He narrowed his eyes at her and said, "If there's anything you can think of, Bellatrix, that you suppose would make me happy, then I think you ought to do it. After all, we are to be very good friends, you and I."

"Yes, sir." Bellatrix shut her eyes and looked a little nauseated. She was confused, Voldemort thought. He'd mucked with her mind. He guided her up by her elbow until she was standing, and he plucked her flute of Champagne from her hand. He set it down and said,

"Why don't you go to Madam Primpernelle's and get some makeup for school?"

"Yes. That's what… I feel like that's what I actually intended on doing today." Bellatrix scowled, looking for bemused than ever.

"Well, it is," Voldemort said, as though that were obvious. He pulled a few Galleons out of his trouser pocket and handed them over to Bellatrix. "A late Christmas gift, from me to you. My soldier. Get yourself something nice. Not that you need the money, of course, but… I want you to know that I care, Bella."

She seemed overwhelmed then. She took a shaking breath and whispered, "Yes, My Lord."

"Goodbye, Bellatrix," Voldemort said, and as she made her way out of his office, he reckoned he would not see her again for a very long time.

* * *

Voldemort sat at the piano and played Liszt. _Un Sospiro. _He'd learnt this piece at Wool's Orphanage as a ten-year-old boy, when he'd completely given up hope of being adopted and had dedicated himself to his academic and musical studies. He'd been a recluse from the other orphans, from the matrons. He'd spent hours sitting at the piano, his hands swirling up and down the keys in chaotic jumbling cascades. Now he sat in the violet parlour and played _Un Sospiro_ again, fingers whirling and flying, dancing and wisping. He kissed the keys over and over again with his expert fingertips, and then suddenly he heard a voice say loudly from the doorway,

"Tom!"

He froze, yanking his hands from the piano and looking up to see Hermione marching into the parlour, holding up a copy of the _Daily Prophet. _Her face was one of utter shock, and she exclaimed,

"It's all gone… it's all… he's dead, and she's dead, Tom, and it's…"

"What are you on about?" He flew to his feet and rushed over to Hermione, grabbing the newspaper from her and reading the headline for himself.

_ALBUS DUMBLEDORE MURDERED - KILLER SLAIN BY FELLOW STUDENT!_

Voldemort's mouth fell open. He stared at Hermione for a moment, and Hermione's eyes welled heavily. She shook her head and whispered,

"Just read it, Tom."

He turned his eyes to the lead story and felt his heart start to thump in his chest with every passing word.

_Albus Dumbledore, beloved and esteemed member of the community best known for defeating Gellert Grindelwald in a mighty duel in 1945, was murdered in cold blood in the Great Hall of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry on Friday. The young witch who aimed a Killing Curse at him was Bellatrix Black. Reports from witnesses indicate that Miss Black filed into the Great Hall with the other students for dinner, then quickly pulled out her wand and assassinated Dumbledore. She was swiftly tackled, and her wand was confiscated. However, a Gryffindor student, Gideon Prewett, dashed over to where Miss Black was being restrained, and he cast a Killing Curse of his own. Mr Prewett, a seventh-year student, was quickly subdued by Horace Slughorn, another teacher at Hogwarts. Once Ministry officials arrived, Mr Prewett was taken into custody and immediately charged with murder._

'_It was absolute chaos,' said Lucius Malfoy, a Slytherin student. 'One moment we were all sitting down to eat. Then suddenly Bellatrix stood up and there was a bright flash of green light. Professor Dumbledore collapsed. People grabbed Bellatrix, Disarmed her, and then Gideon Prewett ran over in a complete rage. He was practically foaming at the mouth, screaming that Bellatrix was a killer and that she'd murdered Professor Dumbledore. Then he cast a Killing Curse that sent him rocketing backward.'_

'_There was death everywhere,' said Elisabet Harrington, a Hufflepuff student, speaking in tears to a reporter from the Daily Prophet. 'First Professor Dumbledore, then Bellatrix Black. We were all directed back to our dormitories, and we heard later that the Ministry came and took Gideon away. They say he'll go to Azkaban for killing Bellatrix.'_

_Horace Slughorn, who Stunned Gideon Prewett and teaches Potions at Hogwarts, said the entire staff were overwhelmed with shock and sorrow at the events and the aftermath. He said the death of a figure like Albus Dumbledore would 'shake the wizarding world to its very core,' whilst the murder of one Hogwarts student by another, even in retribution, was an 'unthinkable act.'_

'_It is absolutely terrifying to think that we may see one of our students in Azkaban because he foolishly and irrationally cast an Unforgivable - of the very worst sort - during a moment of chaotic violence,' Slughorn said. 'The death of Miss Black, even considering her reprehensible action against Albus Dumbledore, is something to be mourned.'_

_Right now, it is safe to say the entire wizarding community is in shock. Minister for Magic Eugenia Jenkins traveled to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry herself following the deaths to speak with staff and students. Talking to the Daily Prophet, the Minister said,_

'_We are all trying to process the events that transpired at Hogwarts School. One murder, committed by a young witch and snuffing out the life of a great wizard like Albus Dumbledore, would be tragedy enough. To compound that terrible violence with the revenge Mr Prewett took against Miss Black is unconscionable. The Ministry of Magic is working closely with the families of the affected - victims and perpetrators - to help come to grips with what has happened.'_

_In the meantime, Hogwarts grieves its beloved Professor Dumbledore. The wizarding world feels a gaping hole where Albus Dumbledore once dwelled. The loss of a young life in Miss Bellatrix Black, no matter her wicked actions, has also left a trail of grief. Gideon Prewett's trial with the Wizengamot is scheduled for this upcoming Wednesday at nine o'clock, where it is fully expected he will be sentenced to life in Azkaban Prison._

Voldemort lowered the newspaper and breathed quickly. He looked at Hermione and whispered,

"She's dead. Bellatrix is dead."

Hermione tipped her head and admitted, "I don't know what to think about it. I ought to feel a lot worse than I do."

"It can't be traced back to me," Voldemort pointed out. "They'll never know her motive. All they'll know is that Bellatrix Black acted like a madwoman, striking Dumbledore down in the Great Hall when everyone was meant to be eating dinner. The focus now will be on Gideon Prewett and how he recklessly, foolishly rushed at her to take her out."

Hermione shifted on her feet and stared at the ground. She let down her Occlumency shields, Voldemort could feel. He crept into her mind with Legilimency and pulled forth the memory she was pushing forward. Molly Weasley was sitting at a table with Hermione, explaining that her brothers Gideon and Fabian had always been rash, unconcerned, wild. They'd gotten into so much trouble as children, she'd said - just like her twins, Fred and George. Gideon, especially, had always been impulsive and hasty. He had always been the epitome of a Gryffindor. Molly had always known it would get Gideon killed, and sure enough, Gideon had been murdered during the First Wizarding War.

Voldemort slipped out of Hermione's mind and sighed. He took a step toward her and laced his arms around her shoulders. He bent down and touched his forehead to hers as he murmured,

"Who'd have known Gideon Prewett would be so very _useful?_"

"So he'll go to Azkaban instead of Bellatrix." Hermione shut her eyes. "She's dead instead of him, and he's the one in Azkaban. Things are different. No more or less suffering, just different."

"You're trying to justify all of this to yourself," Voldemort whispered, "because you're still convinced that you're here to save the world. But you're here to help me win, Hermione."

"I'm here to save _you_," she insisted softly. He took her face in his hands and said quietly,

"Beautiful Dark Lady. You have saved me already. Shall we have lunch?"

* * *

Later, in bed, Hermione lay on her back, and Voldemort turned to face her. He dragged his fingertip around the inside of her left wrist and hummed,

"I don't want to give you the Dark Mark you saw on the others in your lived existence. It would be agony for you to see it on your own skin every day, I think."

"Thank you." Hermione huffed a breath and said, "I'll still be your Death Eater."

"You do not need to be marked," he said. "We've got your stones. If I need to call you… well, I'll find another way. I'm not going to tattoo you up, brand you like an animal. You're not my slave. You're my…"

He trailed off then, for he still wasn't sure exactly what she was to him. He dragged his fingers around the ring she wore on her left hand, and he watched her shut her eyes. She wondered aloud,

"Do the marriage vows I made in the future mean anything here, do you think?"

"No," he answered immediately. "Your husband hasn't even been born yet."

"What do you want of me?" Hermione turned her face toward him. Voldemort's lips parted a little, and he whispered,

"I want you to… be my Dark Lady."

"And what will that mean?" Hermione asked. "Now that Dumbledore's gone, we can go to Diagon Alley, holding hands at the Leaky Cauldron. But someday, you'll be very powerful. Will we try to have children? Will you ever want more of me?"

"Children." Voldemort furrowed his brow and then remembered all the fights Hermione and Ron had had about attempting to conceive a child. He shook his head and whispered, "You've lost the plot a bit, Hermione."

"I'm wondering what Odysseus meant for me to do once I'd come here and fallen in love with you." She pushed herself up onto her elbows. "You and I plotted for Bellatrix to kill Albus Dumbledore. Now Dumbledore is dead. You're making connections, getting money. Abraxas calls you _My Lord. _Will you build yourself a new home with all of your newfound funds? When will you start marking up Death Eaters? When do you start with plants and spies at the Ministry to imbue your cause into every department there? And what role do I play in all of that?"

"A very important role!" Voldemort hissed. "Hermione, you are… without you, there wouldn't be any of it, you understand. The night of the Masquerade Ball, hardly anyone was taking me seriously. The progress I've made just in the last few months is all due to you. And, yes, I'm going to do everything you've just said, and I'm going to do it with you beside me. As my Dark Lady."

"So, is that what the ring means?" Hermione asked, and Voldemort just stared. She held up her hand and gestured to the ruby and diamond ring on her left hand. "Does this ring mean that I'm your partner in all of this?"

"Yes." Voldemort took her hand and kissed the ring. He lowered her fingers to his lap and whispered, "I need your mind, Hermione, and I need your magical strength. I can't do it without you. I think Odysseus knew that. That's why you were sent to me, here, in this time. To march beside me, arm in arm. Will you do it? Will you help me win?"

Hermione let out a long sigh and nodded. "Yes. I belong to the Dark Lord. Now. Let's get some sleep. There will be more news about Dumbledore tomorrow."

**Author's Note: Fair warning that **_**this**_ **fic will end in about five chapters. That's because this will be a Part I will a sequel. As soon as this is done, I'll be writing the sequel to **_**Inimica, Amator. **_**After that, I'll write the sequel to this story. :) Thanks as always for reading and reviewing.**


	24. Thank You

**Author's Note: I am going to end this story here, because I have a sequel planned for it and I want to pick up events when I begin the sequel. Just a heads-up!**

Hermione sloshed wine as she attempted to pour herself yet another glass. This was her fourth glass - no, fifth. Sixth. She couldn't remember. The bottle was almost empty. Hermione rubbed at her sore eyes as she chugged the wine down and slammed the empty glass on her low table. She picked up her copy of the _Daily Prophet _and struggled, through her blurred, drunken vision, to read the homage to Albus Dumbledore that had been written.

Hermione Granger, who had fought alongside the Order of the Phoenix, had contributed directly to Dumbledore's death in this time. She had willed Tom Riddle - _Lord Voldemort_ \- into coercing Bellatrix Black to murder the man. Then Bellatrix herself had been killed. Earlier today, Gideon Prewett had been sentenced to the Dementor's Kiss at Azkaban. Molly Prewett, Ronald's mother and Gideon's sister, had fainted at the trial and had been attended to by Healers.

What had she become? Hermione wondered? What sort of monster had she turned into? She wrenched her eyes shut and tried desperately to think positively of Ron Weasley. She remembered the time she'd danced with him in their flat as the Wizarding Wireless had crackled out a romantic tune. They'd both been tipsy and giggly. She'd been trying to explain some complex concept from work, and he'd just kissed her to shut her up.

Hermione's wistful smile disappeared. He'd kissed her to shut her up. He'd never really wanted to hear what she'd had to say. He'd never actually been interested in her intellectual ventures. Not ever. Not really.

She tried to think of the time he'd pounded her from behind and she'd almost come just from the penetration. But then he'd finished and flopped over onto the bed and asked her to get them some water. She'd _almost_ climaxed, and it had felt good, but Ron hadn't cared whether or not Hermione had crossed the finish line. Sex had always been a bit of a mess between the two of them.

Hermione scowled and desperately tried to remember why she'd ever thought it was a good idea to be married to Ron Weasley. In what universe, she wondered, had she thought that marrying him had been the right thing to do? Why had she led herself down a path to unhappiness, just so that she could be married to one of her best friends?

It didn't matter now. He wasn't here. Ron Weasley was gone, and Hermione was never going back. She had a One-Way Time-Turner. She could never go back, could she?

"No, you can not."

Hermione gasped and flew to her feet, whirling around and stumbling in her drunkenness. She whipped out her wand, which immediately flew away toward the corner of the room. Before her stood a very ancient-looking wizard, with long, wispy hair. He wore flowing silvery robes and appeared to be some sort of vision, some sort of ghost. He was solid, and opaque, but there was something _off_ about him, as though he were not fully in the room.

"My name is Odysseus Siegel," said the man, taking a step toward Hermione through the sitting room of the black and white suite. She straightened up and wished she had her wand. She felt powerless, all of a sudden, standing before him without her instrument of magic. She threw up every Occlumency defence she had, but Odysseus just smirked and said, "He's taught you well, my dear. Your mind is well-guarded. And have you taught him well? It seems he has a new path to forge."

"Albus Dumbledore is dead," Hermione slurred. "It's all my fault."

"It is your… doing. In part," Odysseus confirmed. "You helped Lord Voldemort find his way to being the supreme magical force in this world. You will continue to do so. It is your place in this time to walk with him. Arm in arm."

"That's what he said," Hermione said, feeling breathless. "Arm in arm."

"You are his Dark Lady," Odysseus nodded. "You will do great things with him. The two of you will be magnificent. And I wish for you to know… the time you spent pining, wishing, wanting… a child. That time will come. Not now, but later. When the pieces fall into place. Be patient, and you will see."

Hermione's eyes seared. She and Ron had fought like cats over her wish for a baby, over Ginny's pregnancy and newborn, over what Ron perceived as their mutual inability to ever conceive. Hermione had broached the topic of future children with Tom, but he hadn't seemed receptive. Now Odysseus was telling her that that day would come to pass at some point. What was she to make of that?

"Two sets of eyes I have seen," Odysseus mused. "One caramel, one dark. One the father's, one the mother's. One a girl, and one a boy. Greatly loved will they be, by the Dark Lord and the Dark Lady who rear them. But they will not come for a great while yet, not until after their father's ascent. So you must walk with him, guide him. Be the voice in his ear and the drum in his heart. Will you do it?"

"This is why you sent me here." Hermione felt more drunk than ever. She'd gotten drunk because she'd felt guilty about Dumbledore, about Ron. She'd gotten drunk because she'd felt guilty about coming back in time and leaving her world behind. But suddenly she had visions of children, of Tom being powerful in all the right ways, and she couldn't breathe. She shook her head and whispered, "You sent me here to help him win. Why didn't you tell me?"

Odysseus laughed softly and tipped his head, folding his hands before his silvery robes. "My dear, you never, ever would have rotated that Time-Turner if I'd indicated to you that the purpose of your travel was to fall in love with and to assist the Dark Lord. But, yes, that is why you have come. To change the past and the change the future. To be his Lady. And, oh the things you'll do. Have you got your stone?"

Hermione reached into the pocket of her robe and pulled out the Protean-linked stone she'd created for Tom. She panted a little and then demanded of Odysseus,

"How do you know about these?"

"He told about them, later on." Odysseus smiled a little. "He said they the first of many great creations. Your magic is brilliant. Your mind is incomparable. And he will need you, the wondrous way you think - like no one else. He will need your power just as surely as the world will need his. And the other thing he needs, so very certainly, is your love."

"I do love him." Hermione bowed her head, her voice cracking. "I did not mean to fall in love with him, but here I am, very much in love with him."

"And he is already the better for it, Hermione." Odysseus' voice was soft. "I must go. My time here grows short. Love him. Work with him. Walk with him…"

Hermione raised her eyes and said gently, "Arm in arm."

The door behind her creaked open, and she heard Tom's voice call out, "Hermione? You weren't at dinner. I worry that you… Odysseus."

Hermione stared at Odysseus as she heard Tom's footsteps come walking into the room, as the door shut. Odysseus nodded and said almost weakly,

"My Lord."

"I see you have met the Dark Lady," Tom said, stepping up alongside Hermione, who was swaying from the drink. Tom eyed the wine glass and bottle and frowned.

"Hermione and I have actually met a great many times. She simply has not yet had the opportunity to remember any of them." Odysseus coughed a little. "I really must go. Be well, the both of you. I shall not see you for some time. I trust that you will walk your path on steady legs until then."

"Wait," Hermione said. Odysseus' pale eyes seemed to be fading. He was drifting in and out of translucence, as though he were struggling to stay in the room. Hermione rushed to say, "Thank you. For the Time-Turner. Thank you for sending me back. I would never have… I would never have him without you."

Odysseus smiled a little and said, "You would never have had each other, and that's what counts. Goodbye."

He dissolved into thin air then, like smoke from a candle snuffed out. It wasn't Disapparition; it was something else entirely. Hermione staggered over to the place where Odysseus had been standing, and she turned back to Tom. He glanced at the newspaper, the wine bottle, and the wine glass again, and he asked quietly,

"Are you all right?"

"I belong to the Dark Lord," Hermione blurted, walking back to him, her voice trembling with emotion. "I am your Lady. I will walk with you, arm in arm. Together, we will create a world with room for Muggle-borns. Room for Half-Bloods and Purebloods. Room for Beasts and Beings. You will be a very powerful wizard."

"And you will be a very influential witch," Tom said back, cupping her jaw. He bent down and kissed her, and she knew she must taste and smell of wine. If he cared, he didn't say so. He whispered against her, "Someday we will live together in our own grand home, and I will be the Dark Lord that nobody questions. And we will have little children. A few of them. Hmm? And you will be the Dark Lady, always creating new weapons for me. Always coming up with schemes and ideas to aid me, because you are so brilliant, Hermione Granger, and I can not help but love you to your core."

He kissed her harder then, and she sank against him, surrendering herself completely to the Darkness.

**THE END**

**Author's Note: Thank you very much for reading this story. I have really enjoyed writing it. Its sequel will be entitled **_**Convict and Construct**_ **and will be written after I write my next story, which is the sequel to **_**Inimica, Amator. **_**If you have not yet read **_**Inimica, Amator **_**and are interested in reading its sequel, please do catch up. Chapter 1 of **_**Dominus, Particeps**_ **will be posted shortly. Thanks again for reading and reviewing.**


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